Ad Mortem
by Little Knight Mik
Summary: The 4th Quell has come around, much to the chagrin of the Districts. The excitement of the President and the Head Gamemaker bleeds into the Capitol like a sickness. This time around, no child is truly safe from their reaping.
1. Fit for a Quell

**Welcome to Ad Mortem! Hope you enjoy this opening chapter, and please see the bottom note for more info!**

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 **00 - Fit for a Quell**

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Even as she's in her mid-forties, it's difficult for Celestia to contain her excitement every time another Hunger Games comes around. She's always been a fan of the Tributes who come on TV, of the various costumes they'd wear in the chariot rides. There's always a certain level of drama to each Game—the kind that other events just can't seem to replicate. The parades through the gardens are just too colourful, the large plays that occur in different areas too predictable. If there's one thing that always keeps Celestia guessing and cooing, it's a good Hunger Games.

There's something special about this year's Game, however. She's been counting down the days on her calendar since the last, wondering deep in her chest just what the next Quell's theme will be. The last Quell had been made up of children just barely over the age of twelve, a complete slaughter of pre-pubescent boys and girls who'd thought just now entering the Hunger Games would lower their chances of being Reaped. The 75th Games made sure no one older than thirteen would be Reaped or could volunteer, as well. Celestia had enjoyed the footage of that year. She's more than certain she even recorded it all and kept it as a reminder that there'd only be twenty-five more years until the next one came around.

 _Only twenty-five years_. She fixes her hair as she walks past her vanity table. So odd to think that she'd waited so long, yet so little, so another Quarter Quell to come around. It's almost like her younger self had been afraid it would be postponed or skipped at some point—after all, the uproar with Grandpa Corialanus's assassination was enough to have that year's Game moved to a later date. Maybe Celestia had been worried despite all the success that had come from it; but at the same time, she asks herself why she ever was in the first place. If there's one thing she knows about Panem, it's that the Hunger Games will last forever.

Two Peacekeepers follow her from her room, as per usual. There used to be more for the first few years after Grandpa's assassination, but Celestia still found a way to trim down those numbers and earn back at least some of her privacy. She isn't one of the District residents, she'd argued. Why be watched like one? They flank either side of her, weapons lowered and prepared to defend her if someone leaps out and tries to attack her.

Today is the day of the 4th Quarter Quell, Celestia thinks with glee, and she'll be front and centre to its opening act. She breezes past her assistant, who scrambles behind the Peacekeepers just to keep up with her. The woman is short and skinny, rarely ever seen gaining weight after eating anything—as expected of a resident who frequently eats, only to throw it all up again and eat some more. Celestia doesn't mind having her as an assistant, though; she's a hard worker and always knows how to handle a sticky situation. It's just a shame that Celestia doesn't bother to remember her name. She's been a key helper in organising meetings with the Head Gamemaker, and Celestia does love meeting with the Head Gamemaker.

The assistant stumbles past the Peacekeepers, finally able to make it to Celestia's side. "Ms Nero is waiting for you in the greenhouse, ma'am," she reports calmly. There's no exhaustion in her breath or wheeze in her throat to betray just how difficult it is to keep up with Celestia's long strides.

"Excellent," Celestia says sweetly. "You may go."

The assistant wastes no time leaving her side, scuttling off into another corridor as she checks over her timetable. Today must be a busy day, even for citizens of the Capitol. It's only the announcement of the Quell's theme, she reasons; it's not like it's a difficult thing to organise. Half of the Capitol would already be flocking to that podium and waiting for that announcement eagerly.

She doesn't remember the walk to the greenhouse taking as long as it does. Her fingers twitch eagerly as they pass each corridor, open each door, and greet each advisor. It must be the excitement of the Quell, she thinks. Every other day she's walked through these doors, there hasn't been a sense of impatience. Every other Hunger Games is fun in its own right, but the _Quell_ is a whole 'nother level altogether. A level Celestia wishes they'd reach more than every twenty-five years.

Another assistant flanks her, this one holding a tray with her good tea set. She can smell the jasmine scent of her tea, see her reflection in the silver pot's coat as the assistant bids her good morning. Celestia straightens her suit jacket and bares her teeth at the reflection. Still presentable enough.

"Has Ms Nero been given anything to eat and drink?" she asks the assistant. The man hardly hesitates in his answer, less concerned about making a mistake than the last one to greet her.

"Peaches and white wine, ma'am," he reports. "Ms Nero requested she wait for you before having anything too extravagant."

"Lovely." Celestia smiles. "I'd hate to be the only one drinking this sublime tea this morning."

More doors and corridors, more small talk that makes her eager to see Malvolia. She has so much to ask about, but so little time before they draw the Quell's theme. After what feels like an eternity of walking, the glass doors of the indoor greenhouse come into view. Celestia speeds up her pace, forcing the Peacekeepers and assistant to hurry along with her.

She slides open the doors with a flourish of her arms. Without even daring to look where the Head Gamemaker would be sitting, Celestia announces her presence with an excited, "Mally!"

From the middle of a throne of roses, Malvolia Nero rises to her feet and throws her arms out wide. One hand holds a half-empty glass of wine, the other free of any obstacles to prevent them from shaking hands. It's been quite some time since the two have met—when was their last conference? Two months ago?—and Celestia can see the change in Malvolia's appearance since then.

Her short black hair is now stark white, long and curly as half of it sits atop her head in a loose bun. The remainder brushes against her tattooed skin—against the white patterns that curl and wrap around her olive skin. She's not wearing her usual suit and jacket like she does before she heads back to meet with the other Gamemakers. No, Malvolia dons a gift from Celestia: The white ruffled dress she'd given her upon her promotion to Head Gamemaker. It fits like a glove, and it definitely blends well with the rest of her appearance as she sets down her wine glass and moves away from her chair. Simply wonderful, Celestia thinks as she approaches her friend. Fit for a Quell in the making.

Instead of the crisp handshake she'd planned, Celestia and Malvolia embrace each other warmly. It truly has been too long since they'd last met, and a happy greeting is most definitely in order. Celestia unbuttons her jacket as she slides into the seat across Malvolia's, watches as her friend skips in her heels around the rose bush beside them. It seems that Celestia isn't the only one looking forward to today.

The assistant pours her tea, leaves a cup for Malvolia beside her wine, and bows his head as he tells them he'll give them privacy. Celestia smiles sweetly at him as he leaves the greenhouse, as he's followed out by the two Peacekeepers. They come to a stop outside the doors and turn their attention to the hall they'd walked in from, guarding the only entrance from intruders.

Celestia breaks out into a wide, toothy grin.

" _One hundredth_ ," she hisses. Her fingers shake as she reaches for her cup. Malvolia cackles and cracks her knuckles as she slides back into her chair, an equally wide grin on her face.

"I've waited for this ever since I watched the clips of the fiftieth." She downs the rest of her wine in one gulp, letting out a loud hiss as she sets the glass back down. "Forty-eight children. It was like two Games happening at the same time!"

"Shame that the winner was by sheer chance," Celestia notes around her cup. The jasmine tea tastes wonderful, as usual. She'll have to thank the assistant for picking it.

Malvolia nods. "Even more of a shame he became an alcoholic. I'd be profiting from my luck, if I were him," she huffs. Even at forty-five, Malvolia still has it in her to act like a twelve-year-old and stick up her nose stubbornly. "Who cares about him, though? I'm more concerned about the theme for this Quell."

Celestia hums in agreement.

"I hear you draw it from a bowl like the escorts do with Tributes," Malvolia goes on. She picks up her teacup and sips at the liquid. Her face scrunches up in disgust, but she keeps drinking it nevertheless. "The Head Gamemaker gets to pull it out and gives it to the President, and then the President announces it shortly after so there's no way to tamper with it. Dreadfully boring, but I suppose people from a century ago had a few bright ideas to last a lifetime."

She sets down her cup. "Definitely," Celestia agrees. "Pitting only twelve-year-olds against each other? Shockingly brilliant."

"I personally think that having an entire District vote on who gets sent out is much more eye-opening." Malvolia giggles at the thought. "Shame we can't do it again. I know we'd be getting quite a number of Avoxes this year, if we could."

Celestia can't stop the chuckle that escapes her. "Unappreciative things, aren't they? We send them people to replace their dead and suddenly _we're_ the villains."

"District Twelve and District Eleven just doesn't like being reminded that they're essentially filth at this point. Just you wait, District Ten will start it up as well once they start going dry."

That'll be a problem. Celestia frowns as she downs the rest of her tea in one gulp.

"But that's a problem for another day," Malvolia goes on. The Cheshire grin is back on her face, her golden eyes trained on Celestia with complete and utter interest. "Today is the precursor to our fun."

At the sound of her voice, the doors behind Celestia slide open. The Peacekeepers have parted to let someone in, a tray being wheeled in as the doors slide shut behind them. The tray is covered in a silk cloth, flowers strewn about as a large, glass Reaping Ball sits at its centre. It's filled with folded slips of paper, wax seals holding them tightly shut and keeping the ideas from being seen by onlookers.

Celestia sips at her tea as she side eyes the Reaping Ball. "Already?" she asks lightly.

Malvolia giggles at the question. "Don't lie, Celly," she coos. "You're just as eager to see what this year's theme is as I am."

Her brows rise. She really can't deny that she doesn't want to wait any longer to know what this year's Quell will centre around. Perhaps a halving of Tributes? A vote? Or perhaps a Capitol citizen choice? There's a lot to consider that might happen.

"I suppose I can't keep it in forever," she sighs. There's a small smile on her face as she looks up at Malvolia. The woman has risen from her chair and has taken a stand beside the Reaping Ball, shooing away the assistant who had wheeled it in.

Feigning a submissive tone, Malvolia jumps on the tips of her toes. "Shall I reach in, President Snow?" she asks in a babyish tone. "Will you allow me to see the theme before the announcement?"

Celestia chuckles. "Of course, Gamemaker Nero!" she plays along. "Make sure to dig nice and deep—and may the odds be ever in your favour."

The two snort out laughs. Ugly, obnoxious laughter. Had anyone else witnessed this show of blatant disregard for the Capitol's adored catchphrase, Celestia is more than certain the people would throw a fit. Not that they know how to properly throw one, she reminds herself.

As Malvolia dabs at her tears with a dainty index finger, she reaches into the Reaping Ball and plucks the topmost slip of paper without a care in the world. "Any kind of theme is a brilliant theme," she reasons as she fans her face with the paper. It rustles loudly, the wax seal almost snapping open with each movement. As she holds it out to Celestia, manicured nails pressing lightly against the paper, she says, "Care to take a peek, Celly?"

Her heart hammers in her chest. _Twenty-five years_ , she chants in her head. _Twenty-five years, I've waited for this_. Celestia reaches out for the slip with careful fingers, pinching it tightly between her forefinger and thumb. She's almost afraid she'll drop it. Smear the white surface with the tea from her cup. Stain its words with the scraps of Malvolia's peaches.

The wax seal pops open with little fuss. No tears at the paper, no smudges from the wax. Celestia feels herself let out a breath of relief. Malvolia watches her eagerly, leaning forward as she rests a hand on the table. _Open it up_ , her gaze urges. _Give it a read_.

Celestia inhales deeply. She slowly looks away from Malvolia as she spreads the paper out from its folds. As she gazes down at the words, unable to read them at first, her breath hitches in her throat as the blurry letters start to form sentences.

 _Capitol_ _children_. Those words stand out the most. Of the long list of rules and conditions for this theme, it's every mention of Capitol children that stands out to her. Celestia blinks once, twice, before finally she's able to find her voice.

"What is it?" Malvolia whispers. She's closer to the table now, bending down to look at Celestia's expression with her whole attention span.

With a careful tone, Celestia reads the slip out. "For this Quell, children from both the Capitol and the Districts will be Reaped," she starts. "For the intents and purposes of this Quell, we hope to convey a message that no matter what, the Districts still require aid from the Capitol for survival."

A loud clapping sounds from Malvolia. She's standing up straight, wide grin on her face and splitting her cheeks in half. Celestia sends a smile up to her, amused by her enthusiasm, and hands the paper to the Gamemaker without another word.

Malvolia twirls on her heels as she reads the note silently. There's a small hum in her throat, a glint in her eyes as she flits from word to word. Celestia watches and pours herself more tea; she can't shake the feeling that Malvolia will try to suggest something fun, something interesting to the formula that would make this Quell _better_.

Instead of offering anything, though, Malvolia simply giggles. "A shame for my children, then," she says amusedly. Celestia quickly drinks the tea as the woman twirls once more before firmly planting her feet on the ground. The teacup is set down on the saucer as Malvolia skips back over to the table.

The paper is waved in Celestia's face almost invitingly. Malvolia's grip is loose and tempting, almost begging Celestia to take it from her.

"Shall we announce the Quell's theme, President Snow?" she asks sweetly. There's a malicious glint in her eye, a playful spark that won't be put out any time soon.

Celestia takes the paper with a smile of her own. "We shall, Head Gamemaker Nero."

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 **So this is my first attempt at a SYOT in the Hunger Games section! I'm a bit nervous (mostly because it's the first time in a new section lmao) but I hope you guys enjoyed this! If you want to find more information or the form for Ad Mortem, please go to my profile and click the link titled "Hunger Games SYOT Forum". Everything with "Ad Mortem" in the beginning will be for this fic!**


	2. A Proud Knight

**Hey hey! We have our first Reaping up and ready for you guys to read!**

 **This character was sent in by the lovely** Hoprocker **and I hope I did him justice with his introduction. As you can also see, the SYOT is _still open_ as well! So if anyone wants to send a character/wants to send multiple characters, feel free to have at it! I've updated the list on the forum with Altan's name, which means District One is officially CLOSED!**

 **I hope you all enjoy this chapter, and let me know what you think of our first Tribute so far ^^**

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 **01 - A Proud Knight**

"Again."

Father kicks him back before taking stance again. Knight exhales loudly, feels the pressure in his gut from the hit. He too takes a stance again, barely giving the ache time to leave. He raises the sword until it's level with his jaw, feet shoulders' width apart. Father does the same.

This is routine; the way Father berates him and kicks him away mid-training, the way they start again and dance the same lesson over and over until it sticks in Knight's mind. He's grown used to it by now—it's been his childhood, his life—but it still isn't enough. Eighteen years and it still isn't _enough_. Ever since the announcement of the Quell's theme, it'll never feel like enough.

They lunge for each other, Knight taking the defensive as Father aims for each and every sliver of an opening he presents. He'd been restless last night, unable to sleep until late thanks to the thoughts that had raced through his mind and recalled President Snow's gleeful smile as she'd read the rules out to her people. His lack of sleep may as well be as obvious as a bright neon sign in the middle of a street.

A babysitter. That's what he'll be reduced to if he volunteers this year. No; that's what he's _going_ to be—there is no "if" over him volunteering, he reminds himself.

Father's blade glides along his own, the shrill sound of metal scraping together causing Knight to wince. He swoops under the blade, under Father's arm, and is quick to aim for his exposed side. The swords are dull and can hardly break the skin of even the most fragile fighter through clothing, but there's no mistaking the pain they bring when they mimic a strike. The hit may as well be his, a positive sign that he's ready to take on the Hunger Games this year and win. Father won't regret making him wait another year—

Knight is barely granted time to slow down as he watches Father's body lean away from him. The sword flies past Father's side, missing by a whole inch and a half, as Father moves to Knight's side. One foot kicks out—a low sweep, one Knight won't be able to avoid—and then the boy's golden-brown eyes are locked with the floor, face aching and air rushing from his lungs as the rattling of his sword rings in his ears. It's no longer within arm's reach, which means only one thing: Knight missed his mark, and in the process lost his chance to prove himself.

There's no remorse in Father's voice as he steps around Knight and declares, "You're sloppy, Altan. Defense is adequate, but I expect more from the most promising Tribute of our District."

Not enough. He needs to do more to close the gap. Needs to fix his mistakes before the Reaping. He wipes at his face as he pushes himself to his feet; no blood on the sleeve of his gear, no pain in his nose to suggest injury. Just shame and frustration.

Knight looks up at the clock above the doorway, catching sight of Father undoing the straps of his leather arm bracers. Father spares him no look over the shoulder, no acknowledgement that he's concerned for his son's wellbeing. Just disappointment and annoyance.

"Do your laps until breakfast," Father orders. "See to it that you're presentable come the Reaping, as well."

The minute hand points to the ceiling. The hour hand is pointed to the floor.

 _6AM._ Three hours until the Reaping.

He begins the laps once the training gear is packed away. Around and around the training field, counting the steps and pacing his breaths as the sun begins to rise. Father hadn't needed to tell him to do it, the laps part of Knight's daily routine since he began training for the Games. He supposes it'd been a way to further remind Knight of his disappointment—a way to say that Knight still needs someone to tell him what to do, even at eighteen.

Others would find it strange, just how little Knight is affected by this. In terms of pride, he's slowly picking up the pieces that have been chipped away by this morning's training; but in terms of familial affection, there's nothing. Father and Mother have always had a strictly professional relationship with Knight, just as Knight has with everyone else. He's had classmates avoid him for how cold he can be, had training partners request someone else because of his reluctance to assist in their own betterment. But Knight hasn't cared. Still won't, not even when he wins the Quell and returns home a victor.

He's the best of his generation, Knight reminds himself as he watches a few of the early risers join him on the track. Better than the up-and-coming kids starting their training, better than all of the other seventeen- and eighteen-year-olds itching to get into a Game before they turn nineteen. But he still has a long way to go.

There's at least a dozen of them by the time half-past-six rolls around. Three of them girls his age, two only a year younger; the remaining six boys are all eighteen, itching to volunteer this year just as much as he is. Only one keeps up with his pace, the others jogging a short distance behind and talking amongst themselves. Knight had never made it his business getting involved in the kinds of friendly rivalries they all seem to want—not because he thought it unnecessary and boring, like few others. Knight is among the majority that is afraid of the pain volunteering will bring themselves and others after a bond is forged; a majority his parents belonged to until they were nineteen, only to resume again after he was born.

The girl beside him doesn't have that fear, he notes. She's always been so overly social and involved to some degree with everyone. She's never shown interest in skipping the Games—more often than not she attempts to raise her hand, only to be beaten by someone more eager than her—but there's still part of her that doesn't look like it wants to join the rest of her peers. Knight had once wondered if she'd been afraid of loneliness, if she couldn't stand everything being strictly business, but the thoughts had been quick to stop once they'd begun to disrupt his training regime. There's nothing about her that sets her apart from the rest of the potential Tributes—nothing, but the fact that she's the daughter of a Quell victor.

Knight may not know the girl's name (for obvious reasons), but he's more than familiar with Atticus Clarke. Seventy-fifth game, only twelve years old; he'd been a favourite of the sponsors, always ten steps ahead of his competitors thanks to his abundant supply of weapons, medicine, and armour. Among the few twelve-year-old victors of District One, but definitely not one of the more outstanding ones.

Father had said that Atticus wasn't as skilled as the Knight family had been, even lamenting that it had been a shame that only anyone under thirteen could participate that year. Mother had been fifteen and leagues ahead of her peers, only to have the opportunity snatched away from her for another year. They don't dislike Atticus—but they don't like the Third Quell's theme and outcome, either.

The Clarke girl is saying something to him, dragging Knight's attention away from the track by force. He thinks she's made the obvious remark of him being awake early, and as much as Knight wants to remind her that he always rises with the sun, he refrains. It's an attempt at small talk. An attempt to try and get a friendly response from him. Knight can appreciate the sentiment—this is the last year they'll be training, and then they'll be free to forge their own bonds—but until this Game passes, he'd much rather be alone.

He picks up his pace, practically sprinting now as she waits for his response. He can feel her gazing down at him in surprise, slowing until she joins the rest of the teens. By the time he's made it halfway around the field, the Clarke girl has all but given up trying to get his attention.

It's a rude way to avoid someone, especially so close to a deadline they're all trying to meet, but it's the only solution Knight has right now. He can't just tell them to go away—they're getting in a morning run just as much as he is—and he definitely can't say something horrible. It's better to keep his silence, to keep up the image of the stoic and mysterious Altan Knight they're all used to by now.

He stops for a quick five minute break after he passes the group two more times. He stands in the middle of the training field, leaning his hands on his knees as he catches his breath. It feels like it's going to be warm today, though not unbearably so. Knight smiles to himself. Warm Reapings were always a good sign for District One—Atticus volunteered on a warm day, and the past four victors all volunteered under similar conditions. _It's a sign_.

But the lingering shame from Father's training tugs at him. No one wins the Hunger Games with luck and a _sign_ ; it takes patience and skill, strength and speed. All things that Knight has honed to the best of his ability. But his ability isn't enough. Knight needs more than just an adequate defense. He needs to be the Fourth Quell's predator.

He wipes the sweat from his brow and is quick to inspect the ground. Neatly trimmed grass, white hash marks just faintly visible from the last training lesson his school had held. Knight knows there's a good spot around him for extra training, somewhere he can fit more improvement before he returns home. The group jogs past his line of sight, still chatting amongst themselves. He settles for where he is now, reminding himself that he has no time to waste just thinking on things.

Father had ordered him to do his laps until breakfast, but Knight feels he needs more. Situps, pushups, squats and the like. He can't just run. He can't just put one foot in front of the other and pray for success. Knight needs to do _more_.

He doesn't notice how much time passes with each stretch and exercise. His joints ache in a good way, waking him up better than cold wind in his face and hard blows to the stomach ever will. Though Father never saw to keeping up with Knight's flexibility, Knight still takes it upon himself to keep his body agile and at its peak—after all, no one wins with just brute strength alone. Flexibility is just as important as strength and speed, and Knight can't help the smug smirk that makes its way onto his face as he reaches for his toes. If he wins thanks to his flexibility rather than his strength, Father will _have_ to admit that Knight was ready this year.

Grass crunches under sneakers, a pebble kicked out near him as someone approaches. He has no doubt that it's the Clarke girl, taking advantage of Knight's stretches to talk with him. The smirk is quickly replaced with a neutral expression, his concentration back on the ache in his legs.

Clarke moves in front of him, towering over him more than she usually does. It's not hard for people to tower over Knight, he thinks with disdain. Taking after Mother had been unfortunate, though he supposes being five-four in total height can have its advantages. Easier to fit in small spaces, easier to avoid being grabbed at.

But that's about it. He can't hold someone in a strong neck hold without jumping on them; he can't reach as high or far as others with a weapon; his strides certainly aren't as long as someone like Clarke's.

She lines her feet up with his carefully before she starts to sink to the ground. Her jersey is unzipped, water bottle in one hand as she looks down at Knight curiously. Knight takes his time with sitting back up, allowing himself a chance to exhale calmly before he looks over at her.

Clarke furrows her brows at him as she taps the toes of her shoes against his own. Knight can't help glancing between their feet and her face, expecting her to make some kind of remark about how much longer her legs are compared to his. Instead, though, Clarke just pops the cap of her bottle and chugs half of it in one go. Her eyes don't leave his as she does it, wide and searching as they watch his expression slowly drop.

"You're going to make yourself sick," he comments. Clarke grins at him. "Yes, fine. You got me to acknowledge you. Just don't hurt yourself."

She's quick to set aside her water bottle. Knight watches with a frown as it tips over and rolls along the ground.

"Want a stretch partner?" she blurts out. Her grin grows to a near cheek-splitting width.

Knight sighs at her. "Sure. Why not."

For the first few (admittedly awkward) minutes of their stretches, neither of them says anything. They'll pull at each other's arms and time their positions to an adequate length, but neither of them will say anything other than the occasional, "That's far enough," and, "It's been one minute."

But it all soon melts away into comfortable, formal conversation. Clarke mentions that her father has taken the liberty of being District One's mentor this year, while Knight declares that he looks forward to working with Atticus. Most others would comment on how cocky and self-assured Knight sounds, but not Clarke. She takes his confidence in stride and builds on it, compares it to her own and takes it more as a joke than an unintended challenge. Her easygoing reception of others is probably why people have such a hard time staying away from her, he thinks. If it weren't set to hurt him before he turned nineteen, Knight knows for a fact that he would've responded to her attempts at friendship positively.

They're up on their feet again once the conversation shifts to how prepared they are for the Quell. Clarke stands a good six feet, an entire head taller than Knight, but she still insists that they link arms and stretch. Whether its for her benefit or his, he can't tell—but he won't deny that testing his strength by lifting her isn't a bad idea.

Back to back, arms linked at the elbows, Clarke and Knight wait for a few seconds before they decide who will go first. It's awkward having to hold his arms higher than usual, having himself be lifted so high off of the ground as Clarke leans forward. His gaze rests on the clouds and the warm glow of the sun cast against them, patiently counting from sixty as Clarke holds her position.

At the thirty second mark, she manages to squeak out, "Dad made a prediction for the Quell."

"Hm?" Knight knows she'll explain it away, just as she does every year. Atticus seems to have a need to predict how a Game will end—Father has suspected that the man gambles once a year, always at the time of the Hunger Games—and his daughter is more than happy to share it and see what others think. More often than not, Atticus comes out right.

"He says that since we'll be having Capitol kids, someone from District Two has the highest chances of winning through sponsorship alone," she reports. "Kinda why I'm skipping this year."

Knight scoffs. She lowers him slowly, waiting for him to place his feet firmly on the ground. As soon as they are, he signals for her to let him lift her. Clarke isn't as heavy as the weights he's carried in the past, but Knight certainly isn't the kind of beefy, broad-shouldered giant that could walk around with Clarke's slack weight in their arms.

"All the more reason to compete, don't you think?" he growls.

Clarke hums with interest—though he can't help but feel it sounds half-hearted. "Your family hates District Two, yeah?"

"Yes."

"And your parents don't like my dad too much, either."

He doesn't answer. It's not as though she phrased it as a question, anyway. Clarke knows the answer just as much as Knight does.

"He probably said it to get on their nerves," she giggles. Knight doesn't see the humour in it. "His predictions go around fast by the time the Reaping starts. No doubt your folks'll hear it by the time you get ready—"

"With all due respect," he cuts her off, raising his voice a little. A few heads turn in their direction—did he say it louder than he'd intended? "Atticus Clarke competed as a twelve-year-old with an advantage of being a Career that garnered sympathy. Sponsorship alone is what saved him, and he believes that that's all it takes to win—but he's wrong. He's implanted those beliefs onto you, and it's honestly abhorrent that he believes victory will be handed to competitors on a silver platter."

He lowers her back to the ground with the same patience and ease Clarke had offered him. He's agitated by her prodding—by Atticus's prediction—but Knight is still a gentleman. It'd be rude just to drop her because of his family's own dislike of District Two, especially when she doesn't know any better.

Or maybe she knows exactly what she's dealing with, he reasons as they separate. She was raised in the Victors' Village—a place filled to the brim with _winners_ who all have their own strategies—and each and every one of them knows how to play to a crowd by now. It'd be no surprise if their own methods were passed to her during visits and training sessions.

Knight regards her with a neutral expression. Clarke does the same, her openly friendly demeanour wiped clean from her face.

"What do you think of the Capitol, Knight?" she asks him slowly. Knight quirks a brow at her. What a peculiar question.

With practiced ease, Knight says, "I'm thankful for their support of our District, and for the hospitality they've provided our victors."

Clarke clicks her tongue. It's a loud, sudden sound that makes Knight flinch.

"That's not an opinion, Altan." She nods to him as she picks up her water bottle. " _That's_ why Dad thinks they'll win through sponsorship."

She turns on her heel and jogs back over to the group. All of them wave her over, Knight forgotten as he stares after her with furrowed brows. Clarke shows no signs of struggling to jump into their conversation, waving her hands animatedly as she starts to babble about something.

Knight frowns. Checks his watch. He shouldn't let Clarke's words get to him—not when there's only a matter of hours until the escort introduces herself onstage.

 _7AM_. Two hours until the Reaping.

No one bothers him as he makes his way home and goes through the processes of getting ready. Mother doesn't even greet him when he walks in through the door, focusing on the newspaper as she sips her coffee. Father breezes past him with a stern expression, suit jacket slung over his arm and an array of coloured ties in his hand.

Knight's essentially been left to his devices. A last-minute grant of freedom.

He wastes no time putting his exercise clothes in the laundry. There's a towel folded neatly atop the washing machine, the initials " _AK_ " embroidered in a corner with blue thread. It'd been a birthday gift from an old lady who used to live next door. How she'd found out about his birthday, he isn't sure he'll ever find out; the woman had taken many of her secrets to the grave, but at least he got something useful out of her kind-heartedness.

Knight spends a good portion of his shower reflecting on Clarke's words. The way she'd shut him down after he dodged her question—it was almost like she _wanted_ him to say something other than what she expected. Clarke knows for a fact that Knight and his family dislikes winning without hard work, how much they dislike the way District Two comes out on top thanks to such a method. Why expect him to say something definite? About the Capitol, no less?

He scrubs at his hair, flicking water against the shower curtain before he steps back out and switches the faucet off. Knight inhales the steam rising to the ceiling deeply, and then sets to work drying himself off. It's roughly seven-twenty by the time he's dry, towel wrapped around his waist as he exits the bathroom. Father passes him again—only one orange tie in his hand this time—and grunts out that breakfast will be Knight's choice of fruit. Any other day he'd be told what he should grab, but it seems that Father wants to give him just a little bit more freedom this morning.

Knight's bedroom is one of the smaller rooms of the house, but certainly not small in any sense of the word. He used to sit on his bed and wonder just how many people he could fit in his room at a time, wonder how many cabinets it would take to fill up every bit of space. It's no surprise that a wealthy family like his has enough money to afford the home they have, but he still can't help but feel a little proud of his status every time he sees the average size of other people's homes. Along the back wall is an array of wide panel mirrors, each one hiding a portion of his clothing behind it. He doesn't have the same walk-in wardrobe his parents do; instead, Knight takes advantage of the already large space his room alone provides.

The mirrors reflect everything in the room near-perfectly. Everything but his door is captured in the glass, nothing hidden from his view once he enters the room. He slides open one panel and grabs for an old shirt and a pair of pants—there really isn't much need to get dressed in his Reaping clothes an hour and a half ahead of time—before he delicately slides it shut and chucks the clothing onto a nearby chair.

He takes his time studying his appearance. The way his short hair gleams thanks to its damp state. The gap in his left eyebrow, where he'd been struck and marked by the hilt of Father's sword a few years back. The long, thin scars lining his back and standing out on his fair skin, each one a moment in time Knight can proudly say he's improved from. Most people here try to get rid of their scars and look presentable—look _pretty_ ; but Knight's family will always wear theirs proudly, leaving them as a reminder to others just how strong they are.

The shirt is soft and free of stains, giving off the warm feeling of still being wrapped in the blankets of your bed in the morning. Knight quite likes the feeling, enjoys the comfort that comes with it after a morning of training. It reminds of him the free days where he would curl up on the couch and read, listening idly to the sounds of the TV.

It's quarter to eight by the time he's picked up an almost finished book and made his way to the living room. The large screen of their television encompasses the entire wall, the images looking almost hollow and lifeless as they portray the scenery of a blooming meadow of lupines alongside Lola Amos's giddy report. He pays her no mind—just as he has every other year—as she prattles on about the potential mentors that will be assisting this year's Tributes.

His books are one of the few things he gets a complete choice in. Mother and Father don't see any particular kind of genre as a path that could derail his training—just as long as he never got distracted by them too often, of course. Aside from the occasional weapon and desired meal for his birthdays, they'd even humour him and get new fantasy or adventure books for him to read. Up until he'd truly immersed himself in fictional worlds during his downtime, Knight spent most of his time reading about nature. Nothing too complicated, at least compared to the Districts that _thrive_ in nature from birth, but still enough that he can tell the differences between aloe vera and a deformed cactus.

Knight places the thin bookmark beside himself and curls up into a tight ball, chin resting on his knees as he balances the spine of the book on his toes. Lola's giggling, reporting the weather in each District and what time each Reaping will occur. As far as Knight knows, he won't need to pay much attention. District One always goes first, always at 9AM. Making room for practical deadweights won't impact his morning routine.

Mother places a small bowl of strawberries in front of him by the time he reaches the final stretch of his book. He's been reading it for a while now, pacing himself as he witnesses the journey of a chivalrous paladin in search of glory. True to his expectations, the paladin has come out victorious in his quest—but the cost had been great enough to leave the final parting paragraphs with a bittersweet feeling in the back of Knight's mind. He wonders if there's another by the same author. He wonders if being a victor would give him easier access to meeting the woman.

It's twenty-past once he finishes the strawberries and confirms that the day will be ideal for a Reaping; Mother paces behind him, frequently raising and lowering the volume every time Lola screeches and whispers excitedly to her viewers. Altan had seen clips of the previous host of the Hunger Games in old videos his parents had saved, and he can say that without a single doubt in his mind he'd prefer the colourful, loud man to this shrill, immature woman onscreen.

"Jacket is ironed?" Mother suddenly asks. Knight doesn't even look back at her as he replies, instead picking up his empty bowl and carrying it into the kitchen.

"Ironed and on the hanger," he reports. He leaves the bowl in the sink. Not even a moment later, Mother makes another inquiry.

"Badge?"

He breezes past her, and he can't help feeling the small stab of pride in his chest when he looks down at her. Knight took after Mother in height and appearance, but he's still grown to be taller than her five-one stature. Given his poor habit of standing on things to be taller than others, it's a guilty relief he feels on a daily basis.

"In my drawer, still in its case. And I have polished it recently," he adds just as she opens her mouth again. Mother looks at him with a satisfied expression.

"Then hurry up and get changed," she orders. "Your father and I want you there at least five minutes early."

Getting to the Justice Building early won't be hard for them. The Knight family has lived close to the place for as long as the Hunger Games have been around, and not once have they ever been late to being early for a Reaping. Knight's following the same routine he's had to follow every year, and he knows for a fact that he'll arrive seven minutes early instead of five.

True to his word, the jacket of his suit is hanging in his closet. On the hanger behind it is the clean white dress shirt he always wears with it, the black necktie wrapped loosely around the hanger's neck. Knight plucks them from the closet and places them on his best with careful movements, putting in the extra effort to keep from wrinkling them before he even puts them on. He fetches the trousers from his drawer and is quick to change into the suit; collar flipped up around his jaw, the wrists of his shirt falling loosely down his arms as they wait to be buttoned.

He turns back to the mirrors and surveys his appearance with mild scrutiny. No hair sticking out, no buttons mismatched. He tucks the shirt into his trousers and slides the tie under the collar. He does it up loosely before shrugging on his jacket and lowering the collar again, and then he's tightening it to a neater height as he once again surveys his appearance. Nothing crooked about the tie, no bits of the collar sticking up.

Knight exhales softly. The only thing that's left is the badge.

Most would think it's a heavy burden to carry an entire family's expectations on their shoulders. Most would even feel the pressure sinking in as they lay their eyes on the emblem of their family. Most wouldn't feel the confidence and pride Knight does as he pins it on the middle of his tie. Most wouldn't even think such a responsibility grand the way Knight does. He was born to compete, raised to win. Why should he have to feel like the world will close in on him over the possibility of failure?

He's the best of his generation. Just like his father, and his grandfather before him.

 _(And yet_ — _)_

He buttons his jacket and turns to the mirror once more. His brow raises at his neat appearance, a hint of pride over how well he's filled out his suit this year. Knight looks every part the victor he's destined to become, every part the future of his family that's destined to turn the tides of Games to come.

 _(_ — _it's not enough.)_

* * *

It's the first time he's been ten minutes early to a Reaping. It's the first time he's been the first in line for the boys his age. It's the first time he's bothered to learn the name of someone in his age group, if only to humour himself while he waits.

Claus has always been standing next to Knight during Reapings. There aren't a lot of people with a surname starting with K, and it's hard to find someone that comes after a "Lysandre". But Knight never paid him much attention—not that Claus ever did the same to him. But the spare time allowed for them today gives him a sense of ease, like he has time to himself before the Reaping really begins.

The other boy stands behind him in line as one of the nervous twelve-year-olds has their identity checked by the staff ahead of them. His shadow looms over Knight, reminding him just how many people in District One stand around six feet.

A hand clamps on his shoulder and presses down. His heels touch the ground, to his surprise—had he been leaning on his toes?

"Don't get your trousers in a twist," Claus says. The hand disappears as soon as the twelve-year-old moves to his place near the back of the carefully measured out sections in front of the Justice Building. Knight takes a few steps forward, holds out his hand. The light jab to his finger barely even makes him jump anymore, and he watches with a bored expression as his name is read out and he's pointed over to the section directly in front of the stage.

Claus joins him within minutes, and the two are quick to jump into a light conversation. As much as Knight struggles with small talk with people like Clarke, Claus is different; he was raised under the same principals as Knight, but unlike Mr. and Mrs Lysandre Claus chose to take a step back from volunteering every year. Knight doesn't know the full story—after all, that would require them to go beyond a business-level relationship—but he has heard from their teachers that Claus would rather go on to become a vintner than a victor. Less competition to keep Knight from the Games, he supposes, but it's still a shame that someone who'd undergone a similar upbringing to Knight has his goals aimed elsewhere. Their similar childhoods makes it easier for Knight to converse with him, if only because Claus won't try to make it personal like Clarke does.

The children are filling each section by the minute as they look over their shoulders to check the lines. Father and Mother are waiting patiently along the sidelines, observing the crowd with scrutinous stares. Sizing up Knight's competition, trying to intimidate children into keeping their hands by their sides and their lips sealed shut. It seems to work on some, but a good portion at the front are used to it by this point.

Claus can only sigh as more boys their age join them, lining up in alphabetical order. "Still set on doing it this year?" he asks Knight. It's a dubious tone, though not in a way that suggests Knight will back down. It's a doubt of Claus's own hopes, more like; as if Claus wants someone else to deal with a Quell with such a scandalous theme.

Knight nods. "With all the nervous faces," he mumbles, "it should be easy to be noticed and chosen."

"Wouldn't that make it feel less like a true victory, then?" Claus says. "Sounds to me like you're gunning to be chosen by default."

He glares up at Claus—just for a second—before he returns his gaze to the stage again. He doesn't reply or argue with his point, refusing to be dragged into a debate so close to the Reaping.

The stage is slowly lined with Peacekeepers and District One officials. The Mayor sits closest to the microphone onstage, a proud look on his face as he looks down at the crowd of children before him. The hands of the clock tick agonisingly slowly, until all at once a loud _ding_ chimes through the street.

 _9AM_. Time for the Reaping.

Right on time, the escort scuttles her way onto the stage with two assistants tailing her. Both of them hold the handles of the oversized Reaping Ball with obvious difficulty, stumbling after the green-haired woman as they try not to drop the glass ball.

Knight inhales deeply. "I won't give anyone a chance to get in before me," he mutters. Claus glances down at him, expression neutral as his gaze lingers for a plotting second. And then the boy's attention rests on the escort once more.

The woman taps the microphone twice. "Good morning, District One!" she cheers. "You may not recognise me, but I'm going to be your new escort for this year's Quarter Quell!" She claps excitedly. The assistants still struggle to keep up with her. "My name is Vera and it's a _pleasure_ to meet you all. I can tell that any of you will make this Quell a memorable one."

Offense hits Knight like a cold chill. To say something like that to a District of children pitted against each other _from birth_ to be dubbed the best of their generation? Absolutely pride-shattering.

Vera doesn't seem to pay any notice to the glares from the crowd, to the offended expressions of the parents who'd spent so long training their children to reach this point. "It's come to the attention of the Gamemakers that some Districts may be a little reluctant to participate this year," she goes on to explain. The Reaping Ball is dropped beside her with an audible _clunk_ , the microphone swaying back and forth before she grasps it firmly in her clawed hands. "So, _as a precaution_ , we've placed the names of everyone in District One of Reaping age into the Ball—just in case no one volunteers like usual, you see?"

The crowd is silent. Glances fly left and right, from the parents and the children; do they volunteer or don't they? If no one does, will it be okay to let fate do its work? Knight's certain these questions are running through their heads, the gears clicking away as they try to figure out the best way to go about the Reaping.

As silence reigns over the children, Vera continues, "But before we get into that, let me introduce to you this year's mentor!" She gestures wildly towards one side of the stage, beyond the officials seated behind her. Heavy footsteps ascend the stairs of the stage, a broad form making its way over to Vera with a swagger in their step. The suit he dons is almost too tight on him, making him look stiff and uncomfortable as he smiles down at the children.

Atticus Clarke—he should be thirty-seven this year, Knight thinks, which would make him roughly the same age as most mentors that take on Tributes. But this is the first time he's seen Atticus wanting to partake in the duty, especially given the sheer amount of victors that could do it anyway. He supposes Clarke had been telling the truth about her father taking it upon himself this year.

"As you all know, Mr. Clarke won the last Quell," Vera explains, "which I personally believe makes him the _perfect_ candidate for mentorship. Now, then, is there anything you want to say to the children, Mr. Clarke?"

With a single, fluid movement, Atticus presses his lips to an uncomfortably close distance from the microphone. "I predict that District Two will win this year," he says in a confident tone. "Whoever volunteers, I suggest you make peace with your family during your farewells."

Knight doesn't even waste any time with an objection. Rage flares in his gut, his teeth gritted painfully as his arm rises and he stands on the tips of his toes. A pair of hands clamp tightly on either side of his waist, the sensation of the earth beneath his feet vanishing within an instant. He barely lets the surprise show in his expression as he glares up at Atticus, at the knowing smile the man shoots him as Claus raises Knight high above the heads of his peers.

"I volunteer to prove you wrong!" Knight yells at the top of his voice. The booming sound brings forth a wave of shock from the others; Altan Knight, so mysterious and quiet, suddenly shouting with the tenacity and authority of an enraged teacher. "I will win, and I will make you regret your words!"

Murmurs break out through the rows of children. He can feel Claus's grip begin to falter, but the taller boy doesn't make a sound of complaint as he continues to hold Knight up for all to see. Mother and Father watch with unreadable expressions; Vera's eyes slowly bulge to the size of saucers as she realises just what Knight has said; Atticus's knowing smile turns into a proud, satisfied smirk.

"Well," Atticus says, mostly to Vera, "I suppose we don't need to follow the usual tirade. We've got our Tribute right in front of us."

The Peacekeepers jump into action. They advance on the boys' group to collect Knight, waiting patiently for Claus to lower him to the ground once more.

The view from the stage is spectacular, he thinks. All he sees is an ocean of bright eyes and shocked expressions, neat clothing and expectant parents. One of Vera's clawed hands lands on his shoulder reassuringly—almost as though to apologise for the circumstance he had to volunteer under—before she returns her attention to the microphone and motions for her assistants to remove the Reaping Ball.

"S—So," she chokes out. This must be the first time she's had to skip an entire Reaping process; no explanation of the Games, no rundown of the rules, no need to even move for the Reaping Ball to goad someone into volunteering. An event that was supposed to end at nine-twenty-five is effectively over at five-past. "Care to tell us your name, young man?"

She moves the microphone over to him, only to adjust it so that it doesn't reach higher than his face. Knight can barely hide the annoyed twitch of his nose. He's essentially the smallest person on the stage. "Altan Knight," he reports.

"Well, then." She doesn't bother to adjust the microphone again; instead, Vera simply lifts it off the ground and lets her long, curved nails ding into her skin as she tries to keep her grip steady. "There we have it. Our Tribute for the One-Hundredth Hunger Games—and Fourth Quarter Quell—is Mr. Altan Knight! May the odds be ever in your favour, Altan," she adds in his direction.

They'd don't need to be in his favour, he thinks as Atticus wraps an arm around him and leads him offstage. Knight will come back a victor, and he will make sure everyone will remember him.

The proceedings end just like that. He's led inside the Justice Building, the children disperse, and Vera chats animatedly with her assistants over how _dramatic_ the first Reaping of the day was. He sits patiently in the chair by the window, gaze lingering on the slowly clouding sky as he waits for his parents to send him off.

The sunlight hadn't lasted long, it seems. Up until the point where he'd volunteered, the sun had been out on display and ready to cast its rays upon him like a champion chosen by fate—just as it had the Paladin at the beginning of his quest. But now that he's in the running, a Tribute, a storm looks to be brewing. He can barely see the sun anymore, barely feel its warmth through the window. Maybe he'd been wrong about it being a sign; maybe, all along, he would've been destined to volunteer on a gloomy day that would bear him no luck in his Game.

Knight shakes his head. Luck isn't necessary to win the Hunger Games, he reminds himself. Relying on superstition won't get him anywhere, either.

The door opens—Knight almost bursts out of his seat as his head whips around to greet his parents. Barely a second passes before his expression falls and his body lowers itself back into the chair, though. Instead of his parents, Atticus Clarke stands before him with a smirk on his face.

"Your folks gave me a message for you," he tells him. "Something along the lines of, 'Come home a victor, or become a statistic like the rest of them.' Brutal stuff."

"Given my declaration," Knight growls, "I'd expect no less from myself, as well."

Atticus chuckles. It's deep and throaty, sounding almost like a muffled cough at first. "Velvet was right; your old man's pride really did pass on to you."

Velvet… Is that Clarke's first name? Knight can't think of anyone else Atticus would associate with that has approached him over the years.

"Anyway, don't go expecting any visitors to see you off." Atticus lets out a loud yawn as he moves away from the door. He leans against the desk closest to Knight, gaze trained on the doorknob. "It's not like you ever made any friends who'd miss you, anyway."


	3. Battle-Destined Beauty

**Here's our second Reaping! It took a while to get it out due to the holiday rush, but I hope the wait was worth it! District 2 was already closed when submissions opened, so without further ado here's her introduction! Great big thank you to** palm-biitch **for making her!**

* * *

 **02 - Battle-Destined Beauty**

The Principal's chair lets out a loud squeak as he leans back in it. He holds the loose records of each student in his hands, a small grin on his face as his gaze flits between them.

"My, my," Principal Decimus muses. "It would seem that our Tribute is clear by now."

Cetronia straightens her posture and keeps her expression neutral. At either side of her, the two eighteen-year-olds ranked along with her struggle to keep their faces from twitching.

Principal Decimus looks up from the reports—and then slides two of them back towards the Vice Principal. "A shame neither of you will make the cut this year, gentlemen," he says to the eighteen-year-olds. "Miss Livius has simply failed to disappoint."

One boy clicks his tongue and glares up at Cetronia, but she pays him no mind. It's his fault for not being good enough, and he knows it. The other simply nods in thanks to Decimus and leaves the room without a word, effectively saving his pride and reputation.

"Mr. Caius," Decimus says expectantly. "You're excused."

Caius doesn't move at first. He keeps his glare trained on Cetronia, his expression contorting slowly into a sneer. She deigns to glance down at him, disinterest in her eyes as she regards him distastefully. Cetronia doesn't have time to deal with sore losers like him, and he knows it just as well as everyone else she's sparred with.

Caius slams his fists onto the desk. "Sir, you've got to be joking," he growls. "She doesn't even technically attend the Academy—she shouldn't count—"

" _She_ ," Cetronia cuts him off, "was enrolled just like everyone else." Caius barely even looks back at her. The way his nails claw at the desk is enough proof of his irritation. "She would also like to point out that her village is too far to make the daily trip to classes, nor far enough to warrant a dorm. _She_ , much like _your cousin_ , was tutored by a member of staff from the comfort of home."

Decimus raises his brows with a satisfied smile. "Considering Miss Livius's accomplishments paired with such a handicap, Mr. Caius," he adds, "your own efforts may as well come off as lazy to the Capitol."

There it is. Caius jumps back as though Decimus had slapped him, hurt crossing his features for only a fraction of a second. It's quickly replaced with a crumbling facade of calm, already falling apart by the time Caius crashes into the office door and fumbles for the handle.

The Vice Principal shakes her head as she lets out a short tut. "What a mess," she mutters once Caius is out of the room.

"It'll do him some good," Decimus argues. "Boy needs to get off his high horse before he ends up in trouble."

Cetronia begs to differ. Caius will never get off his pedestal, never surrender it to someone else. He's a sore loser, a proud winner, and if things had escalated today she knows he'd challenge her to a fight to decide who would volunteer.

She would be the winner, of course. The final assessments are proof of that much. Cetronia doesn't surrender as easily as Caius does when someone critiques her form.

"In any case, Miss Livius," Decimus continues, "it would seem congratulations are in order. In all my years both teaching at this school and in the position of Principal, no one from your village has made it with such stellar marks."

She raises her head higher, blinks slowly as she takes in the praise. "Thank you, sir."

"I can't help noticing one of your strengths may play into our advantage, as well." Decimus runs his eyes over the paper again, and then sets it down on the desk slowly. Cetronia can just barely see the picture of herself—of the freshly shaven head, pronounced lips and clear, dark skin. "Your tutor noted that you work extremely well in the dark and use it to hide yourself. Played right, he said that most kinds of arenas could work in your favour."

Of course they could. Most of the arenas she's seen have had ample shadows that even a sickly pale Tribute could hide in. Cetronia was trained to be a hunter on the battlefield, and she'll be damned if she doesn't use her own assets to her advantage.

Cetronia simply nods in acknowledgement. Decimus rises from his chair with a grunt, prompting the Vice Principal to reach hesitantly for him. The old man waves her off, clearly displeased by the offer. Ms. Dione rolls her eyes at him and picks up Cetronia's report, reading over it to herself.

Decimus clears his throat as he makes his way over to Cetronia. His hand is extended toward her, waiting for her to shake it. She takes it with a firm grip. "Allow me to walk you through the next couple of hours, Miss Livius. Seeing as there'll be no need for the Reaping Balls, we'll have to find some other way to make this Reaping proper enough for the Capitol and its own Tributes." Decimus nods to her, waiting for her to agree to his offer.

There's not a lot of need for her to agree. Cetronia had had her own plans for preparing for the Reaping. Every year it was the same, waiting for someone to be drawn and then volunteering—which would hardly come as a surprise to anyone else by this point. It'd be more surprising if the drawn child wound up being the Tribute, but Cetronia has the feeling Decimus doesn't even want to bother with that basic first step.

She glances at Ms. Dione, only to find the woman dialling a number into the desk's phone. It's just herself and Decimus in this conversation right now.

"What did you have in mind, sir?"

* * *

Home is too far to simply return to. Some small part of Cetronia had wanted to spend more time with her family before the proceedings would begin, maybe even watch her father work on his latest stonecarving project. With less than an hour till the Reaping, though, she has no choice but to wait for them to arrive.

She's settled herself within the Academy comfortably. It's not very often that she comes here—normally it's the assessments and mandatory events she walks the halls for—yet she can't help notice just how many people know who she is. Cetronia isn't social by any stretch of the word. Coming from a village as small as hers, being too busy to stop and smell the roses in between training and basic needs, Cetronia just didn't even bother fitting a social life into her schedule. Besides, her mentors and family had said it's always best to wait before forming emotional connections—if she goes into this Quell with, say, a girlfriend or close friend waiting for her back home, she'll slip up.

That's what Alcander always says. The man's tutored so many children over the years and Cetronia trusts his judgement when it comes to mental fortitude and how to build it. If he says that attachments are a distraction—and, more importantly, if her father agrees—then Cetronia will sever any ties leading to her before they have a chance to form.

It becomes fairly obvious that the people claiming to know Cetronia aren't under Alcander's tutelage. They all sit in their own little cliques and show off scars to each other, always with smug expressions and jealous glints in their eyes. Careers, but definitely not the refined sort.

Cetronia's never been one to stand in the spotlight. She's never been one for attention or big crowds watching her. It always feels so unnecessary, so uncomfortable. Cetronia keeps her unease in mind as she does her best to avoid the students rushing to meet each other within each classroom, watches carefully for any followers as she reaches for the upcoming library door. She wants to spend her next hour or so in peace, to look over the papers Decimus had left her with in silence.

No one ever seems to want to go to the library before the Reaping. It's always the training rooms or the courtyard they flock to, wanting one last chance to impress their peers into giving up a spot to volunteer. It reminds her of the scavenging birds some arenas had sported, and it disgusts Cetronia to no end. Opportunistic fools, the lot of them.

The script is dropped onto the table with a light flop. The sound practically echoes throughout the empty room, leaving Cetronia to breathe a sigh of relief when she doesn't hear the shuffling of someone else's feet. She's utterly alone, just the way she likes it. Cetronia drapes her blazer over the back of a chair and leans down over the table, hands splayed out as her shadow is cast over the script. Were she not wearing her neat pencil skirt, she'd sit and cross her legs—but the Reaping doesn't allow for comfort. Impressions must be made within the first second of your name being called, because what Capitolite fool would sponsor someone based on how comfortable they look?

She chews at her lip as she reads over the lines. It all sounds like pandering and rambling, even as she reads a few phrases out loud. It's a script that's meant to sell her as the "true hero" the Capitol Tributes need, as the one the sponsors should turn their gazes to and applaud for being so strong. The fact that Decimus wants her to say all this, had it all prepared for District Two's chosen volunteer ahead of time, makes her wonder just how much he thinks it'll sway the Capitol. Their District may be the lapdogs of the Capitol, but even a pretty little speech isn't enough to sway them from the fact that Cetronia will still have to kill eleven other Capitol kids.

If she's absolutely honest, Cetronia doesn't want to lead these people on. She's not the biggest fan of the Capitol or its people, and she's by no means as patriotic as the next Career. It'd be so much easier to play the part of the lone wolf than to shoot herself in the foot before she even reaches the arena.

She sighs. All this work just to stand on a stage. It's ridiculous.

Cetronia yawns and scratches at the fuzz on her scalp. Any other day, she'd be sleeping in until eleven. She's always been more of a night owl, always did her training at night. Alcander said it gave her an edge most kids didn't have—made her unpredictable, and more likely to catch people off-guard. But that makes her equally vulnerable during the day, Father had pointed out one morning. When she rests, the others move; and if she's found, they won't hesitate to strike while she's asleep.

The door bursts open. Cetronia jumps in surprise, but is quick to regain her composure as she searches between each shelf for the visitor. It's easy to spot them with their large girth filling most of the gaps in her view. Cetronia can't help frowning at the way the buttons of their shirt look to be bursting from the material, ready to pop off and hit the nearest bystander in the eye.

"Anyone here?" a man's voice wheezes out. It's only just now that she notices the laboured breaths in between the two words, with each hobble of a step he takes.

He must be one of those rich, well-fed citizens that live closer to the Justice Hall. It'd be no surprise to her that someone in a financial situation like that would be as heavy-set as this man.

With a roll of her eyes, Cetronia turns back to her table and sighs out in response, "Just me."

"Where—" He cuts himself off with a breathless inhale. "Where's 'me'?"

"Non-fiction, K to M shelves."

And with that he hobbles over to her. She might as well be polite and help him, see if he needs anything that even an occasional student could find. She leafs through the script once more as he waddles over to her, and then she's glancing over her shoulder at a middle-aged man with sweat covering his brow and a handkerchief in his hand. He dabs at his forehead with it as he regards her curtly, and then he's pulling out a chair and slumping into it with a groan.

Cetronia doesn't bother to introduce herself, let alone greet him. "Can I help you with something?"

He's busily catching his breath as he continues to dab at his brow. Part of Cetronia is worried he'll just pass out—the man's so heavily overweight, it'd come as no surprise if it was a struggle just to walk down the hall—while a smaller part of her wishes he'd get on with what he came for.

The man fans himself with a large hand. "I'm looking— Looking for a book," he wheezes. He's starting to go red in the face.

Cetronia glances at him, and then at the shelf behind her. How vague of him. "Any book in particular?" she presses.

" _Complete History of_ — Excuse me—" He begins coughing loudly. Cetronia can barely keep the disgust off of her face as he barely makes a move to cover his mouth. "I'm looking for the fifth volume of _The Complete History of the Hunger Games_."

He wants one of the required reading books. Even a man like him should be able to find it. Regardless, Cetronia exhales and stands up straight again. "I know where that is," she tells him. As she stands, she folds the script in half and tucks it between the waist of her skirt and her v-neck. "Give me a moment."

The man waves a hand at her and resumes his laboured breathing. It takes her maybe five minutes to find the shelf, another two to find the correct volume. Before she returns to him with the thick, leather-bound book, she moves for the front desk and peeks over the counter for the loans folder. It's sitting right in the middle of the desk, opened to today's date, and displays only three names that have borrowed books.

Her brow raises at the sight of it. Perhaps she's not the only one who visits the library at such an early hour.

The redness in his face has subsided somewhat when she returns. Cetronia slides the book across the table to him, and then drops the loans folder in front of her. It lands with a loud clatter, causing the man to look up at her in alarm.

"Before you leave," she says monotonously, "please state your name and the book you've borrowed."

His eyes are blown wide, like he almost can't believe she's asking him to comply to such a request. Cetronia is more than certain he's one of those rich folks now.

"Don't—" He wheezes in surprise. "Don't you know who I am?"

Cetronia pulls out the small pen from the plastic pocket at the back of the folder. "Someone important, I'm assuming," she sighs. "Pardon me for not noticing. Name?"

"F— Felix Brough."

She scribbles the name down neatly. "And I already know the book you're taking," she says, mostly to herself. The man—Felix—stares at her in bewilderment.

"Madam, are you telling me the name doesn't bring anyone to mind?"

So he's rich and thinks he's important. Cetronia can at least be glad she won't have to see him again while she's in the Quell. Something good has come out of this.

She signs the paper and shuts the loans folder with a little more delicacy than earlier. There's really no point in entertaining the man any longer, and she has no doubt she'll find an excuse to leave the library by the time the folder is back at the desk.

Felix hasn't left by the time she comes back, and he certainly doesn't look like she's lost his attention with her disinterest. Cetronia does her best not to look disrespectful as she pulls the script from her skirt and frowns at it. She reaches for her blazer blindly as she reads over one line in particular— _I'll do you all proud by representing our District, and prove that we remain the most loyal even as we are faced with adversity_ —before being pulled away from her script by Felix's voice again.

"What's your name, Madam?" he mutters. The wheeze is almost gone from his voice, suggesting that his forced projection puts a strain on his lungs.

Cetronia glances down at him. She drapes her blazer over her shoulder and huffs out a short sigh. She supposes she'd better humour him.

Just as she opens her mouth, the doors burst open again—but this time there's a certain edge to the bang that makes her fingers twitch. It's aggressive, different from Felix's own attention-commanding entrance.

" _Cetronia_!" shrieks a voice, and she knows _exactly_ who's come looking for her. There's more voices following him, running in through the doors and demanding to know if "it's true" and if "she'll do it". Caius must have spread word of her being chosen to volunteer, and he must not have liked everyone's positive reactions.

With a final nod to Felix, Cetronia says, "That would be my name."

Felix watches in bewilderment as she tosses the script to him. "Burn this for me, by the way. It's pretty terrible," she adds. And then she exits the row of shelves.

Caius stands in the doorway with a face redder than Felix's, a polearm in one hand and a gauntlet in the other. Younger students flood into the room and crowd around her, all gazing up at her with starry-eyed expressions and big smiles.

"Are you really the best, Cetronia?" one girl, probably only a year younger than her, giggles. Cetronia can't help flashing a charming smile at her, watching as a small blush dusts her cheeks and other students begin to ask questions.

Caius is seething at the attention she's getting, and she wants every reason to yell out that she'd gladly trade it for his social abandonment. If the boy wants a pack of fans following him around and screeching over him, he's more than welcome to take hers.

"Make sure you don't get any facial scars!" one girl warns her. "You're, like, the prettiest girl I know and they don't always heal right!"

"No way," her friend disagrees, nudging her roughly. "Facial scars are hot—she'll be a goddess compared to the other victors."

She can hardly move as the crowd grows denser. It's amazing how a group of kids only a few years younger than her can overwhelm her six-three frame. Cetronia keeps her composure as she raises her arms above their heads, slowly wading her way through their questions and demands.

By the time she reaches Caius, he's grinding his teeth loudly. He doesn't even spare her the chance to greet him before he drops the gauntlet to the ground in front of him. She looks down at the gauntlet, then at Caius. He really can't be serious.

"You and me," he snarls. "We're settling this."

He's actually serious about this. Cetronia lets out a heavy sigh as the crowd of students gathers behind her. They watch in silence, the occasional whisper of who would win in a fight heard among them.

"You're a stubborn fool," she berates him.

"Just shut up and take my challenge." And then, for good measure, Caius spits, " _Bumpkin bitch_."

Her chest practically caves in on itself. Cetronia inhales sharply, eyes closing as she rolls her head between each shoulder. A chorus of "oooh" breaks out among the students. How they find this entertaining is beyond her.

She glances above him at the clock. It's nowhere near the Reaping's schedule. She's got time.

"Training Room Seven," she announces. Her voice is commanding and mature, intimidating enough that a few students actually take a step back from her in surprise.

Training Room Seven is the closest room to the library. The last of the training rooms, nowhere near the smallest or largest, though. Whenever Cetronia had to come to the Academy for assessments, it was Training Room Seven she presented her skills in. Caius had practically sprinted in the direction of the room, leaving Cetronia and the crowd to follow at a leisurely pace. Questions are thrown at her, asking if she's okay and if she'll go easy on Caius. One of them even requests she doesn't ruin his fighting capabilities, but the barrage of questions soon fall onto deaf ears.

Her fists are clenched tightly by her sides, her footsteps dangerously close to stomps of rage. The nerve of Caius, unable to take his losses as lessons. He could be resuming his classes and pursuing a great job, maybe even working his way into the ranks of the Peacekeepers. Caius could be a respected member of society. He could do anything if he wasn't so _bullheaded_ and _stubborn_.

Within the instant Cetronia enters Training Room Seven, she throws her blazer aside and into the crowd. The students already training within lower their prop weapons and turn their heads in the directions of their seniors. As a crowd begins to flock to the walls and fill every inch of free space beyond Cetronia and Caius, Cetronia struts confidently over to Caius and keeps up her mask of calm.

Deep down in her gut, though, Cetronia is livid. She takes off her shoes and digs her toes into the padded flooring, feels the strain of her skirt against her legs. Despite the slit that starts at the middle of her thigh, the calf-length skirt is not suited for any kind of battle stance without tearing horrifically. She tries to keep her appearance—her stance—neutral so that Caius won't pick up on the obstacle she'll have to face.

There's people cheering for Cetronia, and minor few cheering for Caius. This is the opposite of how Cetronia wanted her Reaping—and it's preparation—to go, but she'll be damned if she doesn't stake her claim on what's rightfully been given to her.

They circle each other, slowly closing the distance before only a few feet remains between them. Cetronia side-steps and keeps her form loose, one hand hidden behind her hips; Caius is stomping and stalking like a crazed animal, his grip on the polearm the only thing proper about him. How crude, she thinks. He won't give her time to grab a weapon, won't let this fight be fair. Maybe if he'd shown off this ruthlessness more, he'd have been picked. Then again, perhaps it's the exact reason he wasn't—a complete barbarian can't represent their prestigious District, after all.

Caius jumps forward—practically propels himself with one foot in her direction as he aims the polearm for her torso. Cetronia doesn't have much time to actually think on a strategy, relying solely on fight or flight instincts as she jerkily slides to his side. The polearm moves directly for an onlooker in the crowd, already at eye-level and on a collision course.

Just as the students surrounding the poor onlooker shriek in realisation, Cetronia whirls on the ball of her foot and harshly kicks out at Caius with the heel of her other. It lands directly under his ribcage—she can feel the outline of it against her Achilles heel—and forces almost all of the breath out of his lungs. Caius lets out a pitiful wheeze as he's pushed back, as the polearm flies back with him before it drops entirely from his grasp with a loud _twang_. He doesn't move far, but he drops almost the second she pulls her foot back and rights her form. Caius is staggering away, reaching for the polearm as he clutches his stomach in agony.

Cetronia is physically one of the strongest students of her year. She grew up carrying marble and granite in her father's workshop, built her strength thanks to the rich environment she'd been raised in. Caius only needs one punch from Cetronia to wind up concussed—and if she were a cruel person, that's exactly what she'd leave him with.

Sometimes having a greater threat removed from right in front of you is the best way to realise how much you need to improve. Alcander made sure she knew that lesson when he caught on to her habit of ignoring her peers' advice.

He's back into a stance—someone's yanked the polearm away from him at the last moment, leaving him with mere fisticuffs as his only option. There's a little bit of blood on his lower lip, mixing in with the spit he's failed to wipe away. Cetronia can't help smirking at him; poor bastard bit his tongue when she kicked him. Caius takes in one deep breath, two, before raising his fists until they're level with his jaw.

Cetronia moves first this time. She's not as fast as she is strong, but she's definitely a whole world more graceful than Caius is. She feigns another kick, watches as he lowers his arms to catch her by the leg—and then the shock is on his face as her fist flies right in the direction of his throat. Cetronia misses his Adam's apple—a shame, she notes, as that was her target—and instead lands between his trachea and collar bone. He'll be in more pain than she'd intended, but he deserves it.

The fight is over within minutes. It's not the grand brawl the students were hoping for, but it was definitely the beating they'd expected. Caius is curled up on the floor, hands clamped around his throat as his face slowly turns blue. He's just barely getting a fraction of a breath in between each cough, but he's still capable of breathing nonetheless.

As the crowd cheers for her, Cetronia kneels down in front of Caius and leans in close. She can hear the tear at the slit of her skirt—the ironic sound that she'd expected to come during the fight—as she leans over his ear and says, "I'm sure they let even the dregs of the Academy into the Peacekeeper ranks. Chin up."

No one stops her as she walks towards the doors. Her blazer is offered back to her, and she accepts without a word. Caius finally has the crowd surrounding and suffocating him, just like he'd wanted.

* * *

Father definitely notices the miniscule tear in her skirt, but instead of lecturing her he simply smiles knowingly. Like he knows she's proven her worth, that Cetronia is truly the best this year has to offer. She can't help the pride that swells in her chest at the sight of it, at the hug he offers that, admittedly, only lasts half a second.

The escort—a lanky woman named Edith dressed only in bright pink, even having the colour in her hair and eyes—announces the change of plans before introducing this year's mentor. Cetronia almost groans out loud when she's called up onstage, announced as the "predetermined" volunteer instead of just letting her, well, _volunteer_. She makes her way up with grace and her head held high, looking down at Edith over her nose as the woman greets her.

Edith's voice is shrill and makes her sound like a constantly-spooked horse, but at least everything she says is understandable. "Give Miss Livius a hand everyone!" she screeches into the microphone. No one disobeys—if anything, they're already beginning to applaud before Edith is even finished with her sentence. The escort smiles toothily—(who on earth gets all of their teeth flattened like that?)—before waving a hand to silence the crowd.

Here it comes, Cetronia thinks. The demand for the atrocious speech.

"Now, I was told you have a few _rousing_ words for us, Miss Livius?" Edith squeaks. She shoves the microphone into Cetronia's hands before backing away entirely.

With exaggerated effort, Cetronia brings the microphone up to her face. "'Rousing' may be subjective," she begins, and the colour drains from Edith's face once she hears Cetronia's accent. Everyone from her village speaks this way—most of the residents are descended from refugees who'd made it to Panem before their country was taken by the rising water levels, and their culture and language still thrives today—and it has taken a while for most people in the more populated areas of District Two to get used to it, to understand what everyone says. Regardless, anyone can understand Cetronia if they listen carefully enough. "I was quite bored by the basic structure of it myself, after all."

Students giggle. They seem to know what she means, causing her to wonder how often they've had to look over scripts written by the Academy's staff themselves.

"The only difference this year makes is that I won't be killing my District partner," Cetronia goes on, "and that's because I've instead been saddled with a Capitol partner. As much as you all want to believe that District Two will save all of these Capitol children—"

Edith reaches for the microphone, only to have it yanked away by Cetronia. "I'm not done with my speech, though," Cetronia says sweetly. Edith is as pale as a ghost, gesturing wildly to her assistants when she turns away from Cetronia. The live feed must be getting muted with some poor excuse about "technical difficulties", but that won't stop Cetronia.

"As much as you want to think I'll save them all, the truth is that I still have to kill eleven of them. Believing otherwise is childish, quite possibly hypocritical depending on the way you approach it. I was trained to win, and I'll do it with or without a well-fed, spoilt Capitol partner by my side."

There is no applause. There are no cheers. A few faces look up at her in absolute horror, though a good number of adults gaze up at her in complete rage. Cetronia doesn't care, though; the proud smile is still on Father's face, and that's all she cares about.

With a sharp inhale, she adds, "Now, please introduce my mentor so I can get off this stage already."

The microphone is snatched away harshly. Edith smiles nervously and lets out a small, ditzy giggle as she looks over the crowd again. They don't look as happy as they were before, and no amount of news could bring them back from the speech Cetronia had given.

Edith apologises for the "disruption" and is quick to call for the mentor for the Quell. "Ms Augusta's unfortunate passing has required a last-minute change in mentor this year," Edith explains, and alarms ring in Cetronia's ears. Camille Augusta died? Damn, she was one of the best mentors out there. She must have succumbed to old age, like most do. "So it's my absolute honour to introduce you all to Mr. Felix Brough!"

If Cetronia were still holding the microphone, she'd have dropped it.

The odds of something like this happening are as low as they can get without being nonexistent, the sinking feeling in Cetronia's gut causing her to beg internally, _Not him, not him_. Anyone but the man she'd met this morning, who was so heavy for himself that he could barely walk through a library. She can hear his footsteps as they climb the steps, too many seconds in between each creak of wood before another follows.

Those hideous wheezes, so loud and so alike to a balloon slowly letting out air. They're all she can hear as her face contorts into a mixture of disgust, horror, and disappointment. She can't even look at him as he approaches and presses a hand to her shoulder, the fat digits slick with sweat that seeps into the material of her blazer.

This has to be a joke. Camille probably just has a hidden sense of humour and sent out this man to play a trick on Cetronia.

But the proceedings go on. He gives a speech about how harrowing the 77th Game had been, how he'll make absolute certain his District and Capitol Tributes will succeed. She almost wants to scream at him, demand to know how in the world _he_ could've won a Game, but she doesn't. Cetronia holds her tongue and clenches her fists tightly by her sides, waiting with the patience of a saint for the Reaping to end.

When it does, she walks in silence into the Justice Building to say her goodbyes. She sits down at a small chair and steadies her breathing, clenching and unclenching her hands faster than she should be.

Father finally bursts in with Mother and Grandmother in tow. The old woman clings to Cetronia and pats her head as Cetronia stares cautiously at her parents. Father still looks proud, but there's that doubt in his eyes that suggests his faith is not fully with his daughter.

As soon as Grandmother steps away, back to lean against Mother, Cetronia says softly, "How did he win?"

Father wastes no time with his answer. "Chance."

Her rage returns with a vengeance. A mentor who won by _chance_! This joke is _beyond_ the point of staying funny—it's practically an insult now!

"He and the runner up were starving to death," Mother explains. Cetronia paces angrily as she listens, chewing at her fingernails to keep from throwing something. "The runner up just faded before he did. According to Alcander, it'd been a challenge to keep Mr. Brough alive after they retrieved him."

"It certainly _looks_ like it!" Cetronia snaps.

Mother looks at her sternly. "Reign it in, Cetronia."

Cetronia inhales deeply and covers her face with her hands. She's tired and angry, but that isn't her mother's fault—nor anyone in her family's fault. If they'd just chosen a better-suited mentor…

"Yes," Cetronia breathes. Her voice lowers until it's calm again, and she removes her hands from her face. "My apologies, Mother."

She'll work through this, she thinks. That was part of her training, along with the fighting and the observations. She's not so hopeless that she has to actually _rely_ on the man for this Quell—not when half of the Tributes lack most of the combat skills she has.

She'll work through this.

* * *

 **Fun fact about Cetronia: The accent specified that she has is a Ugandan accent!**

 **I'm not sure how long it'll take to get the next Reaping done, but it'll definitely be less than this one took since I now have more access to my computer! And I also wanna share the news that I'm already planning the 101st Game, which means I'm definitely going to make sure this Quell goes out with a bang by the end of it all!**

 **Hope you guys liked the chapter, and I'll see you all at District 3!**


	4. The Quartet's Chemist

**Hey all! I'm surprised at how quick I got this done, but it was pretty fun looking up all the stuff involved with the characters in this chapter ^^**

 **Great big thank you to** Platrium **for sending in this one! I hope I did her justice!**

* * *

 **03 - The Quartet's Chemist**

While Daphne has always been an early riser, it's probably the first time she's gotten up so early with all of her friends present. It's not every year that all four of them gather together the night before a Reaping to have a sleepover, but this year felt particularly foreboding, in a way. Like the inclusion of Capitol kids would make everything outside of the arena just that little bit more tense.

So, with a night of games and reading planned out for all of them, Daphne called the other three members of their quartet to her house for dinner and breakfast.

Kamela had been the first one to wake up, despite all the trouble she had the night before going to sleep. Even as Daphne began to fall into small bouts of microsleep in her attempt to stay up with Kamela, Kamela was still wide awake and studying the material of her sleeping bag by the time sleep had taken over. She must not have gotten more than five or so hours of sleep, but Daphne knows it'll be enough to last Kamela the day.

After Kamela had been Zinnia, and it hadn't taken them long to fish out Zinnia's tablet to pass the time with chess. They'd kept the light low enough that Daphne and Gretel could still sleep, but soon the soft sound of tapping against the surface of the device was enough to rouse them.

It's still too early for her parents to be rising. Daphne runs a hand through her hair, tries to brush out the tangles with her fingers, and watches as Gretel moves to Kamela's side for a better vantage point. Kamela's the only one out of them three who doesn't look as tired as Daphne does, and the intense look of concentration on Zinnia's face quite possibly makes her look as though she'd gotten the least sleep. Never mind the fact that Zinnia was out like a light shortly after ten the previous night.

Daphne's arm flings out into the empty space around her. Kamela glances at her, but her attention quickly goes back to Zinnia's careful hand moving a bishop down the board. Had it been anyone else with them, they'd ask if Daphne was swatting a fly or lost her balance—but the quartet doesn't need to ask her anything. As she stands she lets out a quiet yawn—a small squeak interrupting her midway—before deciding to explore the quiet house for a moment. It'll still be some time before her parents get up, wanting just at least another hour of peace before the Reaping comes around. Daphne's used to this—and, on occasion, she's gone as far as attempting to cook breakfast for them to eat in bed.

She covers her mouth with her hand as she peeks into her parents' room. Her tics aren't the easiest to keep silent, but at least they won't hear her if she covers her mouth. They're still snoring away, blankets thrown about by their no doubt restless night. Vector and Disney always stress more than Daphne does over the Reapings. All of her friends' parents do—though in Zinnia's case, their concern is directed towards her younger sibling more than herself.

It doesn't take long to find the key to the clinic's entrance. Her father always keeps it where he can find it, hanging up on the sole hook by the front door. She clenches it tightly in her hand as she creeps back into the living room. Zinnia looks to be losing the game of chess and chewing thoughtfully at her lower lip, while Kamela and Gretel take turns moving pieces.

Daphne smiles at the trio. It's a bit unfair, Kamela letting Gretel help her. Gretel's the resident math whiz among them, and Daphne knows all too well how she applies her knowledge to strategy games like this one. She crouches down beside Zinnia and reaches for the girl's hand with he index finger. As Zinnia moves her queen towards the middle of the board, Daphne traces _C-L-I-N-I-C_ over the top of Zinnia's hand.

Zinnia breaks out into a smile immediately. She motions for Gretel to take her spot, and then she's pulling Daphne to her feet with a big grin on her face.

Zinnia loves animals just as much as Daphne does, if not more. It's one of the things they always bond over whenever she invites Zinnia over to stay the night, and it's fun seeing her enjoy herself with Daphne's parents when her own fail to accept her needs. They sneak out the back door and cross the yard with hastily put on sneakers, avoiding any rocks on the path as they practically jog in to the door. Once it's unlocked, Zinnia wastes no time checking on some of the newer residents staying at the Petheraph Clinic.

She whispers greetings and questions to the animals, poking a finger through each cat's cage and stroking their ears before moving on to the next. Daphne can't help be a little envious at how easily Zinnia can be so affectionate with the animals—if it weren't for her own allergy to their fur, Daphne knows for certain that she'd be doing the same thing. It is nice seeing Zinnia happy, though, especially since the animals love it when she gives them attention. The cats never seem to care that Zinnia has poor hearing, nor do they notice that she only seems to speak the most when she's around them.

Zinnia is still greeting each cat by the time Daphne has her glasses perched on her nose and a surgical mask over her face. She carefully measures each bowl of cat food before turning for Zinnia again. Zinnia takes notice of her, probably catching the movements out of the corner of her eye; Daphne waves her over, only for her arm to fling out and rap her knuckles against the wall. Daphne shakes her hand as Zinnia approaches. All she needs to do is point to the cat food and the cages for Zinnia to know what she's asking her to do. Normally Daphne would attempt it herself, feeling only a tad more safer with the surgical mask on, but she doesn't want to risk going into anaphylactic shock so early in the morning—and on the day of a Reaping, no less. If she survived and missed the event, there really would've been no point treating the allergic reaction.

Zinnia delivers each bowl to the cats while Daphne starts with the dogs'. They only have three extra large ones, the canines all sharing a large room that leads to the outdoor kennels as opposed to the cats' cages of solitude. Once she's done, she gathers up the box of bird feed and carries it through the clinic, to the furthermost room. The birds are a little easier to deal with, mostly because they're not really covered in fur. Daphne doesn't like to take chances, though, and still keeps the mask on her face as she unlocks the cage and steps inside.

Once she and Zinnia are done, they make their ways back outside and give each other satisfied high-fives. They've just saved Vector a whole lot a stress fretting over the animals at the last minute, _and_ had a little fun themselves while they were at it.

Vector and Disney Petheraph rise at 7:30, much to Daphne's surprise. They're calmly escorting Kamela and Gretel to the dining room as they call out a good morning to Daphne and Zinnia. Daphne hadn't expected them to wake up for another half an hour. Really, she'd been hoping to surprise them like she normally does—maybe even make breakfast for herself and her friends. But maybe this is for the best, she thinks; Daphne can never make the pancakes fluffy enough for Kamela to eat, at least not the way Disney does.

They sit at their spots at the table, leaving either end free for Vector and Disney. Vector takes his place at one end, his small appointment book in his hand, and immediately jumps to asking questions about their night.

"How'd you all sleep?" he asks, and Daphne wastes no time tracing _S-L-E-E-P-?_ onto Zinnia's arm. If she had her drawing pad with her, or even just a marker, it'd be easier to convey these questions to her. That's usually how Daphne and her friends communicate—providing visuals for Kamela and Gretel, while also serving to let Zinnia know what someone has said without forcing her to read their lips.

Kamela reaches for one of the sugar jars and pops open the lid carefully. As she dips her little finger inside, she reports, "We all went to bed before two."

Vector's eyes bulge. " _Two_?" And then he's hastily adding as she brings the finger to her mouth, "Ah, that's the raw sugar."

Kamela wastes no time wiping her finger clean and swapping the jar for the powdered sugar. "There was a very interesting new way to look at my sleeping bag," Kamela reports. Zinnia leans over to Daphne and spells out _G-O-O-D_ on her arm. She almost doesn't make it to the last letter when Disney approaches with drinks, suddenly excited to have some juice with her breakfast.

"Zinnia had a good sleep," Daphne says. "I tried staying up with Kamela, but—" She squeaks, and it's louder than the one she'd woken up with. No one flinches, let alone bats an eye at her. "—I fell asleep before she did."

Vector nods and looks over to Gretel. Gretel is busily wiping her glasses on her pyjamas, taking her time to answer him. When she does, it's a simple, "I slept well, Mr. Petheraph. Thank you for asking."

The door of the microwave shuts loudly, muting another squeak from Daphne. All eyes move for Disney—for the whirring machine and the bowl of butter melting inside it. Disney has a worn out look on her face, doesn't seem to notice that the attention is on her. She's stressing, Daphne thinks with a furrow of her brows. The Quell has her more worried than usual. Disney moves from one end of the kitchen to the other, mixing bowl tucked under her arm as the microwave fills the silence. No one dares to ask her if she's okay—but Kamela does get the woman's attention at the very least.

"Is the butter for me?" she asks. Disney's shoulders hunch in surprise. It takes her a few seconds to put a smile on her face and set the bowl down.

"Yeah," Disney says. "Figured I'd get it ready while I start on the pancakes."

Kamela beams at her. While Disney does her best to return it, it still looks almost forced to Daphne. The woman turns away from the table and pushes all of her focus onto the breakfast just waiting to be cooked, and attention is returned to Vector once more.

Daphne squeaks. Her head rolls from shoulder to shoulder. "We have to be there by ten, right?" she asks. Gretel nods.

"The proceedings were moved ahead half an hour," Gretel reports matter-of-factly. "Mostly to accommodate the time it would take to travel to the Capitol from each District, but Lola Amos said yesterday that they didn't want to make the Reapings go on for more than twelve hours."

The appointment book is open in Vector's hand as he scans over some of the pages. Some people must be picking up their pets after the Reapings, Daphne assumes. "Makes sense," he agrees. "They'd probably riot if they had to sit through their own kids being sent to their deaths like we do."

" _Vector_ ," Disney hisses. He smiles over at his wife, an apologetic look in his eyes.

" _We_ don't need to be concerned with it, though." Vector reaches over and ruffles Daphne's hair, tangling it back into the knots she'd spent so hard to comb out. "You're all just fourteen. All of the names in one Reaping Ball just lowers your chances—right, Gretel?"

Gretel nods vigorously. It's an obvious invitation to not only calm Disney's nerves with reassuring facts, but also exercise her brain first thing in the morning. Chess must not have been enough. There's a whole babble of numbers and recent census records, of how little tesserae people actually take in their District, before finally Gretel comes up with her odds.

A 0.0167% chance of being Reaped at their age. Had they only been in the female Reaping Balls, the odds would be doubled—but since it's all in one Ball, Gretel confidently tells Disney that none of them will be leaving this year.

"We can just watch and see how one of the older kids does," Daphne jumps in. She keeps her voice hopeful, definitely reassured by the odds Gretel had reported. "I've only ever seen what the Capitol dresses like through the escorts, so maybe we can take references from their Tributes."

Disney almost hesitates at the suggestion. Illustrating has always been a shared love of theirs, just like Daphne and Vector's love of animals. Disney had been the one to teach her to draw, had been to one to let Daphne watch as she finished panels for her comics, and they never failed to snag references for each other to use. As successful as she is, Daphne knows Disney has yet to go to the Capitol for even the smallest of visits. Morbid as it sounds, seeing the Capitol's children on TV might give her some inspiration.

Pancakes are shoveled onto plates as the butter is retrieved from the microwave. "Alright," Disney sighs dramatically. "I'll calm down. But no more talk about the Reapings at the table—you'll ruin your appetites."

* * *

"She looks really ugly this year."

That's the first thing Daphne hears when she walks into her room, brush in her hand and fresh clothes on to face the day. Gretel and Kamela are at the edge of her bed, barely paying much attention as Zinnia and Daphne swap places to get ready. Gretel's tablet is held by both of them, frowns on the two girls' faces as they glare at the screen.

"Who is?" Daphne asks. She pulls a portion of her hair over her shoulder and braces herself as she attempts to brush out the knots.

"Lola Amos," Kamela says. "What colour is she wearing?"

"Green and pink," Gretel sneers. Daphne cringes at the mental image. "All those feathers aren't helping, either."

"She's probably going for some sort of muttation look." Daphne reaches for the bandana behind Gretel. From this vantage point, she can see the vague image of Lola Amos herself reporting the proceedings for the Reapings. For a whole second she thinks she's looking at a ball of feather boas stacked on top of each other, or even some sort of intern, but the extravagant movements she makes are a dead giveaway that it's Lola. "Those pink birds from the Second Quell have been getting popular again, I hear."

"Looks more like a jabberjay, to me," Kamela mumbles.

Daphne can't help the laugh that escapes her, taken by surprise by Kamela's jab. There's a small smile on Kamela's face as she glances up at Daphne. Gretel merely purses her lips at the screen before putting the tablet into sleep-mode.

"I'll take the next shower after Zinnia," Gretel announces. She stands up and raises her arms above her head, stretching them with a strained expression. Daphne's just barely finished tying her bandana, not a piece of her scalp or fringe visible, as Gretel leaves the room in search of her travel bag.

It's just Kamela and Daphne left, waiting in silence as they double-check their Reaping clothes. They never dress up fancy like most others, preferring comfort and in-jokes to make the occasion feel lighter. There's no doubt that Daphne's shirt will attract more attention than one of the more well-dressed kids will, though, and she just hopes that those who read it will get the joke.

Kamela inspects her braces in the mirror hanging on Daphne's door, and when she turns around to say something she completely loses track of her words. Her eyes narrow as they zero in on Daphne's shirt, the gears rotating in her head slowly. Daphne almost blushes out of embarrassment—if Kamela doesn't get the joke, then maybe no one will.

"In pursuit of…" Kamela scrunches up her face. "The skeletal formula for serotonin? Oh—!" Kamela's expression becomes clear and impressed, a good sign that she's gotten the reference. "In pursuit of happiness, right?"

Daphne nods proudly. It'd taken a while to help Kamela with some of the jokes on her shirts, but this is the first time Kamela's gotten it on her own.

"It was this or 'think like a proton', but I wore that one last year."

"I like it." Kamela nods decisively.

They don't have to wait long for Zinnia and Gretel to finish their own preparations. Gretel's bag is slung over her shoulder and her Reaping clothes are neat and tidy, while Zinnia tucks her hands into her pockets and glances between each girl. Gretel announces that she's going to go home and check in on her parents not even a moment after she comes back into Daphne's room.

"They might know the odds are low," she tells them as Daphne leads her to the front door, "but they'll worry if I don't go with them, you know?"

"Yeah," Daphne agrees. Mr. and Mrs Saga care deeply for their daughter. If that 0.0167% turned out to be against Gretel, they'd be horrified that they didn't get to spend more time with her before the Reaping. Kamela agrees and decides to go a few houses down the street to her own home and make sure her dad's awake. Mr. Wisdom would probably send her back and tell her cheerily to spend time with her friends instead, but Kamela is insistent she makes sure he gets out of bed on time.

Only Zinnia stays behind as she and Daphne watch the two girls leave. There's no point in Zinnia leaving—not when Mr. and Mrs Urkyztrum are more concerned about her sibling rather than Zinnia herself.

Daphne takes her friend's hand and gives it a reassuring squeeze. Zinnia squeezes back, and is quick to let her own arm go limp when Daphne's swings forward. They have at least an hour and a half to kill before they have to get their names crossed off at the Justice Building, and Daphne knows exactly what to do to pass the time till then.

She keeps a spare tablet in her desk for whenever one of her friends stays the night and they have projects to finish. While each girl has their own specialised areas—Daphne's chemistry, Zinnia's biology, Kamela's astronomy, and Gretel's mathematics—they all share the same love of programming that living in District 3 had provided them with. The fact that they always wind up working together in school and that they always take on projects in their free time makes them pretty in-sync with each other; to Daphne, this is what makes programming fun half of the time.

They sit back to back on her floor and tap away at the screens as they read through the coding so far, and with a smile Daphne is quick to send Zinnia a small message. Working on the amateur AI they'd started as a group requires more than just a simple hour to make leaps of progress, but it couldn't hurt to test it out so far and see what new terms need to be defined. Daphne waits patiently for Zinnia's response, and then they're opening separate programs to give SIRIUS a test run.

It responds rather well, all things considered. Daphne chats animatedly with the AI, discussing arguably unremarkable topics and making sure it can keep up with her own speed. Where SIRIUS lags and hesitates, searching its coding, Zinnia gives it a push and makes tweaks to temporarily fix the problem. A good twenty minutes has passed before both girls decide to test it with puzzles, just like they always do whenever someone makes alterations.

Daphne inhales deeply and gets a squeak out of her system. "Are you ready to play some riddle games, SIRIUS?"

There's a pause before letters begin to appear under the image of the low quality, 3D dog head. _I would love to_ , it says.

"Alright. Let me know if any of these don't make sense." She pauses, letting the words register. Then, "What's harder to catch the faster you run?"

SIRIUS is quick to respond. _Your breath_.

"Good boy!" she praises. In response, the sound of a single bark emits from her speaker. "What belongs to you but others use it more than you do?"

Another quick response. _Your name_. Daphne almost wonders if Gretel tested a few of these on it last time they worked together.

"Okay, here's a hard one. Two fathers and two sons go fishing together. They each catch one fish to take home with them. They don't lose any fish, but when they arrive at home they have only three fish. How is this possible?"

Daphne watches the screen as the head moves back and forth, a visual representation of SIRIUS "thinking". It stays in this state for a good ten minutes, most likely running through each word in its dictionary to see if the answer lies there. One incident had proven to require the dictionary, but this one shouldn't.

She opens the small chat window and sends Zinnia a quick message: _Have we taught it more than just basic familial terms?_

The response is immediate. _Not in this context, I think._

Another five minutes passes before SIRIUS finally gives up. Daphne likes to refer to its response as this at least, because what other way is she supposed to interpret big red letters declaring " _0 RESULTS_ "? She smiles sympathetically at the screen and gives it a small tap, dismissing the block letters.

"That's okay," she tells it. "You'll learn the answer in a few minutes."

The rapid tapping starts from Zinnia's screen almost as soon as Daphne says it. All she has to do is wait and keep an eye on the time until either the Reaping or Zinnia finishes—whichever comes first, at this point. There's only twenty minutes left until they actually have to start walking to the middle of town and get in line. SIRIUS might have to wait until lunch for the answer.

Daphne stands up and stretches while Zinnia continues to work. She cleans her glasses, checks her braces for the upteenth time, and even redoes her bandana for the sake of it. It's a slow process at times, but the payoff is worth it. After all, how many other kids their age started an AI program for extra credit? They'd all learned the hard way that just keeping communication levels functional is a daily task, but it's what keeps them all going when they're not preparing for contests or working on other school projects.

Her bedroom door opens, and in pops Vector's head. There's a bit of fur stuck to his shoulder—a sure sign that he's had to deliver some pets back to owners this morning—and a lint roller in his free hand as he announces that it's time to head out. Daphne squeaks and taps Zinnia on the shoulder, and all Zinnia can do is wave goodbye to the image of SIRIUS and leave the tablet in standby-mode. Poor thing will have to wait.

Vector leads them out as he collects the fur from his jacket. Other children in the street are starting to walk towards the Justice Building with their parents, a mixed bag of ease and nerves varying among their faces. Before Vector can shut the door behind him, he says, "Both of you have what you need? Daph—inhaler?"

Daphne reaches into her back pocket and shows him the small inhaler. Vector looks to Zinnia, and there's no need to specify what he's asking for; she simply gives him a thumbs-up and tucks her hands back into her pockets.

The house is locked up and they join the crowd walking towards the Justice Building. No one's smiling, Daphne notes as she glances left and right at the other children around them, but no one's crying hysterically like they do most years. There are no parents looking grim and on the verge of tears—not openly, at least. From what Daphne can see there's just barely a shimmer of hope in their eyes as they walk with their children. Hope that the odds won't be against them this year.

Daphne keeps her hand in Zinnia's as they start to enter a more congested area. The streets are narrowing just a little, the way it always does to thin out traffic that enters the city centre. She glances around to make sure her father is still with them, keeping her pace with Zinnia slow and deliberate. Her gaze flits past a few older kids—lingers on one girl in particular that walks in the opposite direction of everyone else—before finally it locates Vector just a few yards behind them. Daphne moves to call out to him, halting Zinnia and linking their arms so she can properly cup her hands around her mouth; but then the older girl walks straight for Vector, a cheerful expression on her face as the colour in his own slowly drains away.

Daphne's never seen her father like this. He's been wary before and spoken in hushed tones in case something he says comes off as anti-Capitol, but he's never looked outright _scared_. The girl reaches into the clutch she has in one of her hands and pulls out some money, holding it out to Vector as she begins to talk. Curiosity nips at her. Daphne nudges Zinnia and is quick to trace _L-I-P-S D-A-D_ onto Zinnia's arm. It's cruel of Daphne to ask her to eavesdrop, let alone see if she'll overcome her difficulties with verbal communication, but Zinnia's the only one in the quartet who can—albeit shakily—read lips.

She leans over to Zinnia's face and waits with a held breath as Zinnia's hand cups around her ear. The words come out in a mess of mispronunciations and whispers, but they're easy enough to follow once she processes them. " _Hold on to my bird a few weeks longer_ ," Zinnia says slowly, voice rising with the lilt of a question. She's doubting what she's seeing is what's really being said. " _Are you sure. I am going away after the Reaping. Are you the mentor. Even if I'm not, I still want to go on a holiday. I'll see what I can_ —"

Zinnia moves away from Daphne at breakneck speeds. Vector glanced over in their direction, almost absently, but now he's staring at them with a concerned look as more children pass them. The older girl turns around as well, expression becoming sickly sweet as she meets Daphne's eye. Daphne tries to smile back and wave, but the expression on Vector's face and the small shake of his head stops her mid-wave.

The older girl hands him the money and pats him on the shoulder, and then she's joining the crowd once more. She weaves her way through, avoiding most collisions waiting to happen, until finally Daphne loses sight of her. Vector catches up with the girls, face still pale as he ushers them back in the direction of the Justice Building.

"Dad," Daphne starts. Vector doesn't respond. "Dad, who was that?"

He inhales deeply. "A customer whose pet I'm holding on to." His words are careful and slow, a long unheard tone to drop the subject hidden beneath his caution. If she's just a customer, then why is he so high-strung over seeing her today?

Vector's quick to change the subject when Zinnia and Daphne glance at each other nervously. "Disney said she'll meet us on the way to dropping off her script," he tells Daphne. "When it's all over, how about we go look at some upgrades for those tablets?"

"Sounds good," Daphne says cheerfully. And it really does—new installments have been developed, and after a Reaping is probably the most free time Vector or Disney would get to take the quartet to look at them.

The atmosphere feels less tense by the time they reach the Justice Building. The smile is back on Vector's face and Daphne's long since forgotten the customer. There's lines—lots and lots of lines—but it takes them a few minutes to find which one they need to get behind. One line consists of adults wanting to find a spot outside the Reaping area, to see their children and reassure them, while the two lines for boys and girls to check in fork out as more kids approach.

Zinnia tightens her grip on Daphne's hand. Daphne squeaks as she wedges them into a shorter section of the lines.

It could just be nerves, but her tics start to spike in frequency the closer they get to the Quell official. Zinnia's in front of her, still holding her hand as her leg kicks out to the side, as her her snaps back and forth. The only thing Daphne can do is roll her shoulders every minute to keep from suddenly ripping her hand from Zinnia's grasp.

Kamela and Gretel are a little further up from them, slowly merging into the single line and rubbing their hands. None of them enjoy the pain of having their fingers pricked—last year Daphne's arm had even jerked up into the air the second her finger was punctured—but it at least helps to mentally prepare for it. Soon she loses sight of them as she and Zinnia enter the single line as well, and then it's only a matter of time before it's their turn.

Zinnia goes first, called over to a free desk that's set up between the two already-established ones. There looks to be little issue with her identification, the official immediately pointing to a general area for her to go to. Zinnia lags in her footsteps as she scans the crowds for Kamela and Gretel, looking for where girls her age have to stand. Daphne's called up to the table with a dissatisfied, "Next!"

She gets straight to her greeting when she comes face-to-face with the man. "Hello!" Daphne says with a wave.

He simply motions for her to press her finger onto the machine in front of him. When the prick of the needle hits her finger, Daphne squeaks and quickly clamps her free hand over her mouth.

"Daphne Petheraph?" he says with a raised brow. She nods. "Third section to the left. Next!"

That was a surprisingly short exchange.

She lines up with the other girls in the P section, smiling toothily when she sees that Gretel is still standing next to her this year. Most of the kids between P and S are older than them, which means Daphne and Gretel are always going to be next to each other with each passing Reaping. It's reassuring in a way; not even the identification process separates the quartet completely.

More kids start to line up before the Justice Building is crowded by teenagers. It's suffocating and overwhelmingly warm, but at least she's not in some uncomfortable frilly dress like some other girls are—she can't even imagine how much heat would be gathering between the folds, roasting the girls alive.

The mayor is onstage before anyone else, announcing that the Treaty of Treason will be read aloud before the Reaping. She holds her cue cards in front of her, flipping through them as the children quieten down and wait; then, with absolute calm and un unwavering voice, the mayor recites the one piece of text every member of Panem has known since birth.

It's barely even a few minutes past ten by the time she's done. People clap out of obligation as she takes her seat and tucks the cue cards into her jacket's inner pocket, and it becomes quite obvious who's going to take over from here. The huge yellow hat most definitely didn't come from District 3, and by this point everyone knows the four-eyed face of Iris the escort.

One of the girls ahead of her leans towards her friend, whispering just barely loudly enough for Daphne to hear, "Mom said that Iris had surgery to insert prosthetic eyes under her cheekbones. Heard she has to eat everything through a straw."

Her friend scowls. "Disgusting. Is there even a practical use for it?"

"It's the Capitol. Nothing they do is practical."

Daphne giggles. The girl has a point, but who knows? Maybe they've got some cool new fashion statement going on that involves eyes.

Iris greets District 3 with a flourish, and some of the kids actually call a greeting back to her. She's been their escort for a few years now, grown on some of the older kids. The younger kids still find her to be a bit strange, though, and Daphne's noticed a few adults sighing and rolling their eyes whenever Iris speaks. The woman talks excitedly about how only one child will be Reaped this year, how she looks forward to getting to know this year's Tribute and help them through their pre-Games proceedings. Unlike most other escorts who act condescending and scold their Tributes, Iris dotes on hers.

An interview with Lola last year showed just how much Iris loves District 3. She names every Tribute she's met, every interesting new thing she learns during her short visits. Iris has even shed a few tears over children who'd wound up barely making it beyond the bloodbath.

Daphne likes Iris. She hopes that Iris can stay their escort even after they get another victor—whenever that happens, at least.

"There's been a bit of a delay with our mentor this year," Iris announces with a nervous tone. Almost like she's worried they'll be disappointed that they won't see the mentor before the Tribute. "She's asked that we go on with the proceedings, and that she should be here shortly before the farewells begin."

Gretel leans towards Daphne. "Only four percent of our victors are female," she whispers. "Shouldn't be hard to guess who it is if we don't see her."

Daphne nods in agreement. District 3 doesn't win a lot of Games, but when they do it's mostly the boys who survive through some stroke of luck.

"So!" Iris motions for her assistants to carry over the Reaping Ball. It's set down with a loud thump beside her, almost shaking the stage. Daphne chokes on a squeak, trying to keep herself from interrupting. That's a lot of names. "We'll get started with the Reaping!"

And with that, Iris's hand plunges deep into the Ball. Everyone seems to be holding their breaths—even Gretel, who'd proclaimed not even three hours earlier that their chances of being Reaped were close to zero. They sit in silence for what feels like an eternity, when when Iris's hand emerges with a slip of paper tucked between two fingers.

Gretel's hand clamps down on Daphne's. Daphne stamps her foot onto the ground as she feels a surge run through it.

Iris reads over the name once to herself before finally, she says it.

"Daphne Petheraph?"

A mass of held breaths are released all around her, but Daphne's is stuck in her throat. 0.00167%, right? That was what Gretel predicted, right?

She supposes the odds weren't in her favour this year.

Her cheeks hurt as the smile forces itself upon her face. This is fine, she thinks. Iris is a nice person, she shouldn't be afraid to go onstage. Maybe someone will volunteer before the Reaping finishes. Who knows what will happen?

Gretel won't let go of her hand—a Peacekeeper has to forcibly remove her from Daphne, her shrieks that the odds were too low for Daphne to be picked ignored by those around her. Whispers break out among a few teens as she gets closer and closer to the stage. She can hear crying coming from the adults, but who?

Iris helps her onstage and gives her a comforting hug. Daphne still won't let the smile fall.

"You're very brave to smile, Miss Petheraph," Iris says proudly. Daphne nods—her cheeks hurt so much.

"Thank—" A loud shriek of a squeak tears its way out of her throat, and Iris jumps back in horror. Daphne's face flushes red, her smile finally falling as her hand clamps over her mouth. "I'm— I'm so sorry— It's my Tourette's, I didn't mean to—"

Another squeak. It actually hurts when it comes out, like it's clawing at her throat as it rises.

"That's fine, dear…" Iris keeps her words slow. There's no longer pride in her expression or voice now—only fear, concern, hopelessness. Iris must think Daphne is going to be another name to mourn. Even the prosthetic eyes, glassy and dead-looking, seem to have that negative edge to them. "E—Everyone give Miss Petheraph a hand."

There's slow claps through the crowd, stunned expressions on everyone's faces. Disbelief litters most of the crowd, and none of the adults clap—only the children. The adults merely watch with horrified expressions and hands covering their mouths as they shake their heads at their Tribute. And why wouldn't they? Daphne may be fourteen, but she's as small and fit as a twelve-year-old; beneath her shirt, a small, pudgy belly has been left behind from years of sitting in front of computers and tablets. She's not the ideal Tribute. Not to them or the Capitol.

She's given the chance to give a speech, but the loud squeak she lets out as her arm jerks to the left is enough for both her and Iris to agree she doesn't need to. She can barely breathe without her vocal tic cutting her off for more than five minutes, so why bother risking talking? Iris begins her conclusion of the Reaping and says almost hesitantly that she looks forward to working with Daphne. Before even the final goodbye can be said, someone actually bothers to interrupt Iris.

Where was this person earlier? Daphne can't help wondering if they'd been running late or weren't expecting the Reapings to finish so soon. Their footsteps rush up the stairs and onto the stage, and then a young woman's voice is breathlessly saying, "Sorry I'm late! Lost track of time!"

It's the customer that had spoken with Vector about a pet. What's she doing onstage?

As Daphne stares up at her with her jaw dropped ever so slightly, the young woman steadies her breathing and moves for District 3's Tribute. Hands land on Daphne's shoulders lightly, almost as though afraid they'd crush her if she was grasped too hard. Before she can ask what's going on, the young woman pulls her into a hug that feels warm and kind, full of affection and positivity.

"You're gonna do great," the young woman whispers to Daphne. "I was just like you when I was your age, and now I'm one of the few victors we have to spare. I _know_ you're gonna make it."

An overwhelming feeling of hope grasps at her heart, and Daphne can't bring herself to pull away from the young woman. Instead, she returns the embrace and stuffs her face into the material of the her mentor's dress, relieved tears threatening to fall as she chokes on each breath.

Everything after is a blur.

One minute she's hearing Iris thank someone named Synthia—the young woman?—and then the next she's sitting in the Justice Building, dazed and lightheaded as she feels the precursor of a movement tic flow through her legs.

The rest of the quartet bursts in before her parents do, and they all screech as they weep in unison. They throw themselves onto Daphne—even apologising for not volunteering in between their sobs—and she can only embrace them as she continues to regain her bearings. It feels like she's in a dream, like nothing's real. She know it isn't, though. Not even a nightmare is as cruel as this.

It doesn't take long for Vector and Disney to enter the hysterical scene. Both of them are babbling and pulling all four girls into an embrace. The group sinks to the floor with Daphne at the centre of them, surrounded by warmth and those she loves most. She'll miss this.

When they all pull away, Daphne smiles at them. She doesn't want to cry, doesn't want to make them worry. So she keeps smiling. Zinnia and Kamela have to pull Gretel away so Disney and Vector can properly say goodbye to Daphne; it's almost physically painful, hearing Gretel's screeches and sobs. It makes her heart break.

Disney is the first to crawl to her daughter, chess piece in one hand as she gives Daphne a tight, air-restricting hug. "I'm so sorry, Daph," she breathes out shakily. "If it were a regular Game I _know_ someone would've volunteered—"

"It's okay, Mom." Daphne's voice is soft and soothing. It's the same way Disney would talk to her whenever Daphne struggled during hard times. "I'll do my best."

The hug gets tighter—impossibly tighter—before Disney pulls away to look at Daphne's face. There's tear stains on her mother's cheeks, her eyes red and glassy as more threaten to spill over.

"I—I know it might be helpful to take your inhaler as a token—" Disney cuts herself off as she reaches for Daphne's hand. The chess piece is pushed against her palm, and Daphne almost immediately recognises the feel and weight of it. It's not an ordinary chess piece. It's the USB designed in the shape of a queen—one of the four that the quartet each won during the last annual science bee. "I can't bear to give it to one of the others, an—and I know how much you give each other hope so I wanted you to—"

"It's perfect," Daphne whispers.

And then it's time for Vector to say his piece. There's confliction in his expression as he wipes at his eyes. He almost hesitates to move closer to his daughter, to take Daphne's hand, but he manages it.

"Daph, you need to be careful," he begs. Daphne continues to smile at him, but she does hum with interest over his request. "Synthia's not— You can't trust her."

"What do you mean?" Synthia had hugged her so tenderly onstage, though. Those kind words were everything Daphne had needed to hear.

"She can smile as sweet as you and be as polite as you—" The doors open, Peacekeepers storming inside to fetch her parents. Their time is up. Vector clutches Daphne's hand tighter. "Just don't trust her—she isn't what she seems!"

He's dragged away from her, pleading with her to not trust Synthia. Daphne can only watch on in bewilderment as her parents are escorted from the room. So many questions fly about in her head as the doors are shut behind them, so many conflicting viewpoints to look at as she processes it all.

One question stands out above the rest, though: Just what did Synthia do to make Vector _beg_ Daphne not to trust her?

* * *

 **Fun fact: Because Daphne's tics were left up to me by her creator, I decided to give her the same vocal and movement tics as me!**

 **Hope you all enjoyed the chapter! I'll be seeing you next in District 4**


	5. A Worldly Spearfisher

**Hey all! Here's our next tribute - sent in by the wonderful** ThatOtherAsian **. I hope I did right by her!**

* * *

 **04 - A Worldly Spearfisher**

She squints down at the water, hands on her hips as she leans forward. "This where it fell?"

"Yeah," Hama sighs. She's standing just a little behind Adrianne, an almost shamed expression on her red face. "Mira tried to dive after it, but she can't hold her breath long enough to reach it."

Adrianne nods. She shrugs off her vest and stretches her arms. "Run by me what it looks like again?"

"It's a smooth ring made from coral. I guess the coral's red? I dunno, I could never figure out what to call what colour it is."

"Roger that." Without a second to waste, Adrianne dives gracefully into the water.

It's about 8AM and Adrianne hasn't had a lot of time to gather her bearings, much less properly wake up and prepare for the Reapings. But a request to dive into the water surrounding one of the floating houses to fetch a lost item sounds like the perfect pick-me-up.

The weather's warm, the water refreshingly cold. It chills her to the bone—maybe she should've dove in with more than a sports bra and her boxers—but Adrianne can't complain. The day will only get warmer, and it never takes long for her to get used to the water's temperature. She gathers her bearings and hovers in one spot as her eyes adjust to the salt water. Something is dropped into the water, a bright light shining from it that almost blinds her.

A small underwater torch. Adrianne rolls her eyes and grabs it as it slowly starts to sink; she threads her hand through the loop at the end of it and points the light down at the depths below. She doesn't have much trouble seeing in the dark, but if the ring's fallen between some rocks then Hama's gift may be helpful. Adrianne kicks her legs up and forces herself to start sinking deeper and deeper, until finally she can swim with ease.

The water is where Adrianne feels most at home. As stereotypical as it is, coming from the fishing District, she'd feel hopeless if there wasn't regular rain or somewhere to swim anywhere else. There's no other District that she can kick her feet into the mud, play games with thunderstorms, and spook the small schools of fish some areas breed and farm. She's seen what some of the Districts look like thanks to the job Jack gave her, and it's a travesty that no one can know this joy like she does.

Deeper and deeper she goes. Darker and darker it gets. A few fish take notice of her and quickly swim away; any other time, Adrianne would chase after them with a grin. She gets the feeling Hama won't be happy if she comes up for air the first time without any news about the ring, though. By the time Adrianne genuinely needs the torch to see, she's spent at least forty-five seconds swimming. She can make out the beginnings of the small coral beds layering the bottom of this particular body of water—which means it shouldn't take long to spot that ring and grab it.

She spots the small air dome a little deeper as the coral bed dips. Adrianne nods to herself as the plan forms in her head: If it takes more than two minutes to find the ring and swim back up to the surface, she'll catch her breath at the dome and continue on from there. She's never had to use them often—she's not one of the Careers that train with them due to how busy Jack keeps her—but she knows their purpose at the very least. Some kids train for hours on end without leaving the water, and extending to time you can stay underwater is an essential part of even the work some people partake in. The domes are for anyone wanting to improve to use, but it's primary function is to train its Careers.

The ring doesn't appear to be in the spot Hama had pointed toward. Adrianne stills her arms and feet, a pout on her face as she holds her entire body still for just a few seconds. She keeps her eyes on the coral bed. Ever so slowly, she's pulled away from where Hama pointed and towards the air dome.

Adrianne shines the torch towards the dip in the coral. The ring was carried in the direction of the dome. Handy to know.

She makes for the dome first, checking for any signs of someone inside before she surfaces in the small area within. It's freezing cold and her hair clings to her neck and face, but at least she's more alert than she'd thought she'd be by now.

With a sharp inhale, Adrianne dives back down. She swims as fast as she can to the coral and shines the light along each tiny crevice and sponge. It takes two more trips to the dome before she finally catches sight of the ring drifting towards a small group of hermit crabs. Adrianne rolls her eyes and fights back the urge to huff out a sigh.

One particularly big hermit crab moves for the ring, but she makes quick work of moving it away. It hides in its shell as she places it at the centre of the group, too scared to emerge even after she lets it go. The ring doesn't look to have been damaged by the trip it's taken, though Hama was definitely right about the colour. As pretty as it is, there's just no word that comes to mind other than "blood orange". Whatever it is, it's still a fairly nice colour.

Adrianne inspects it properly in the dome and shines the light on it. Smooth as a newborn's face, maybe a little too wide for Hama's slender fingers. She can see why it'd fallen so easily.

It's been a good ten minutes by the time she emerges by the platform again, and Hama's just sitting there patiently with Mira by her side. The two girls stare down at Adrianne expectantly, not even bothering to comment on how long she'd been submerged. Adrianne holds out the ring and the torch with a grin.

"It almost got away," she says, breathless. Hama takes the ring with a smile, while Mira just pouts almost jealously. She probably wanted to impress her girlfriend by getting her ring for her. "Isn't it a bit big for fingers, though? You're all…"

Adrianne brings her fingers up and waves them about daintily. Hama immediately turns red at the action. She stands up with a huff and stamps her foot on the platform, sending a wave of water towards Adrianne and pushing her away from the duo.

"I'll have you know, _Adrianne_ , that this is my token. It's the bracelet my _dad_ made for me when I was a toddler." She pushes it onto her thumb, clenching her fist tightly to keep the ring from falling off again. "Obviously it's going to need to wait until it can fit again."

"Just put it on a necklace!" Adrianne calls after her. Hama continues to walk away, ignoring her at this point. Mira doesn't follow yet. "Plus, you're only fourteen—you're not gonna need a token unless you volunteer early!"

Mira shakes her head disapprovingly. "You've upset her, Chinook," she sighs. Adriane looks to the blonde with a quizzical expression. "Why couldn't you just give it back and let it be?"

"What if she drops it again?" Adrianne begins to paddle over to the platform. She climbs back up and pulls the hair tie from her hair; with a strained expression, she wrings the long brown locks until they're just barely damp. "Jack and I go out a lot now that I'm older. If I'm not here, do you honestly think some of the Career kids will dive for it?"

The younger girl's cheeks puff out in objection. "I could get it!"

"How far did you make it today?"

"Well— It's like you said, we're only fourteen! I could improve once I start training."

Adrianne laughs at her. It's not a loud guffaw like Jack would let loose. It's a quiet snicker, accompanied by the smallest shake of her head. It only makes Mira angrier, and much like Hama she's quick to stand up and stomp her foot on the platform.

"Why is it funny? _You_ aren't one of the Careers, and you can swim just as deep as they can! Why can't I?"

"Because I _work_. My job requires strong lungs and powerful swimming ability. Unless you want to get into spearfishing early like I did, you'll need more than the time it'll take for me to leave to improve." With that, Adrianne grabs the shirt she'd discarded and slings it over her shoulder.

There's only anger in Mira's eyes as they start to tear up. Adrianne tries to appear remorseful as encouraging phrases run through her mind, but they're never given a chance to be voiced as Mira stomps away. She sounds almost like she's about to start sobbing as she yells back to Adrianne, "Well I hope you have to leave by _tomorrow_!"

The words sting a bit. Adrianne's got some pretty tough skin, but sometimes it hurts when she tries to be helpful—only to have it backfire because of stubbornness, her terrible advice filter, or both. Mira's right. Maybe she should've let it be today.

The Reaping won't be for another two hours, and it's pretty clear that everyone's rising to start the day. Adrianne tries to own the pyjamas look as she strides past the small houses to her own, though it's hard to ignore the wolf whistles of some of the students that jog past on their daily route. If she had a spear or harpoon in her hands, they'd probably leave her alone. That's a big "probably", though.

She's mostly dry by the time she walks inside. Sounds come from the kitchen as she walks casually down the hall, the barest trail of water left behind her. There's the vaguest scent of bacon in the air, and she doesn't even bother to grab a towel as she sprints for the kitchen.

Jack's awake—of course he is, he's an early riser—and he's scooping eggs and bacon onto the plates in front of him. Adrianne's mouth waters at the sight of the food, almost ignoring the slogan on his apron. _I licked the bowl_ , it declares. She scowls at it as she drops herself onto a chair at the bench, finally coming face-to-face with her adoptive father.

"Did you really lick it?" she asks dryly. Jack snorts out a laugh.

"The only bowl to lick is the frying pan," he points out, "and it would be most unfortunate if I gave myself the DIY Avox treatment."

He has a point there. Jack douses the pan in water before joining her, a small plate of toast between their own meals. There's little to no conversation between them as they stuff the beginnings of their breakfasts in their mouths.

By the time Adrianne butters some toast and breaks the yolk of her egg, Jack's practically finished his own food. He dabs a napkin at his mouth and asks, "What's got you looking like a drowned mutt this morning?"

Around a mouthful of toast, Adrianne replies, "Kid lost a ring in the water. Asked me to get it. What's with the fancy breakfast?"

On any other day, even the ones they can spare the time to cook, Jack and Adrianne just settle for something as simple as toast or a bar of muesli. It's the pretty rare occasion that Jack even bothers to don the apron, an even rarer one when Adrianne puts it on.

Jack simply shrugs. "Fancy breakfast for a fancy event?" he tries.

She shrugs back at him. "I really wouldn't call a Quell 'fancy'. Have you seen the way they dress?"

The man chuckles. Jack puts his plate into the sink and shrugs off the apron. "Come now, Chinook," he says softly. "They don't dress _that_ badly."

"Their cluelessness with clothing is almost as bad as their cluelessness to the needs of the Districts," Adrianne mumbles. Jack looks over his shoulder at her, a defeated expression on his face. "What? It's true. Glory and honour to all those kids who win the Hunger Games and all, but the Capitol acts like a toddler with tunnel vision hiding under a blanket when it comes to facing the reality of things."

"Hm." Jack crosses his arms over his chest. To a stranger, this can look extremely intimidating—he's big and looks like a rugged outdoorsman, after all—but to Adrianne it's a sign he's reminiscing. "You know, you sound eerily familiar. I _swear_ I knew someone who'd say the same thing."

He's being facetious. Adrianne shoves the last of her toast into her mouth and shoves the plate towards him. "I get it. 'You remind me of your parents more and more'—that kinda spiel."

Jack smirks. "You do," he says. "Everyone here dislikes the Capitol to a degree, but your father complained about it the same way you do. I was almost afraid I'd have to fire him or transfer him to a different area so he wouldn't get into trouble."

If Adrianne had to be honest, she doesn't really pay much attention when her parents are brought up. True, she lost them at a young age. True, she doesn't have a lot of memories of them—only flashes of smiles and silky hair. But to Adrianne, Jack is her family now. He's her boss and her dad, her guardian and her friend.

She's gone seventeen years without knowing even the names of her own parents. She's sure she can last the rest of her life living as an Evans instead of chasing after the Elders.

"That's cheesy and all," Adrianne quickly butts in, "but I need to get changed before I catch a cold. I doubt anyone gets anywhere by sneezing on everyone."

"You never know," Jack calls after her. She's already down the hall and heading to her bedroom before much else can be said. She can hear the sounds of folders being shuffled around even as she slides her bedroom door shut behind her.

Reapings are not her favourite time of the year. Honestly, she can't imagine it being _anyone's_ favourite time of the year—save for District 2, maybe. She really does believe that winning the Games and volunteering can bring honour and glory, but sometimes it's _too much_. Kids either being slaughtered for crimes committed a century ago, or winners coming back either monsters or empty, almost soulless versions of themselves. If the Games weren't determined by a kill count and a "last tribute standing" mentality, maybe she could appreciate the idea of it more.

Adrianne had six close friends when she turned twelve. Now at seventeen, only three of them are still around. One of those three, Shell, didn't come back the same.

Jett had volunteered for his older brother—a poor decision, but in Jett's defense Heath had broken his leg a week earlier—and ranked twenty-first. Brook was Reaped and no one volunteered for her; she placed third, and the shattered hope that a mere fourteen-year-old could make it left the remaining friends tiptoeing around each other. Shell had won at the cost of her sight. Adrianne couldn't bear to watch that final fight, and the perky girl who'd volunteered after honing her skills was barely recognisable once she returned from her victory tour. She'd been happy to have Shell return two years ago, but what Shell had to sacrifice to entertain the Capitol leaves a bitter taste in Adrianne's mouth.

She tries not think think about Neptune. The way he'd perished… No one deserved something as heinous as that.

She dumps a pile of clothes on her bed. She never knows what to wear to Reapings. It feels disgusting, dressing up for a one in twenty-four chance of victory, but it feels almost disrespectful to dress like a slob if someone she knows gets Reaped. Adrianne tosses shirts and pants left and right, effectively creating a mess of her room.

Reapings are most definitely not her favourite time of the year, she decides once she pulls a white sundress from the pile.

She isn't one for frilly things or even simple and plain dresses, but she at least has to look respectful for whoever winds up onstage today. Don't dress like she's going to a funeral, don't dress like she doesn't care—just be there, and look supportive while she's at it.

Adrianne's still busily drying her hair until it can be put back into its ponytail when she hears someone call out Jack's name. She almost drops one of her flats in surprise, almost not recognising the voice for a second. When Jack replies and invites the person inside, she's quick to peek out of her room and catch even a glimpse of them down the hall.

Jack has a lot of clients and partners. A small portion of them are previous victors, having travelled outside of the District many times—a valuable resource, considering Jack has to constantly report what he can supply to some Districts without getting in trouble with the Peacekeepers. They may sell mostly fish and small pearls, but talking with past victors over what they can get away with is one of the few reasons Jack and Adrianne haven't gotten into trouble yet.

She recognises the man almost immediately, the impossibly long scarf wrapped multiple times around his neck. Adrianne grins as she hops out of her room, struggling to put the leather flats onto her feet, and calls out, "Mr. Pike!"

Melvin Pike pauses in the middle of shaking Jack's hand. He seems confused at first, like he'd almost forgotten that Adrianne lives here. When he finally sees her rushing down the hall to meet the two men, Melvin simply smiles back at her.

"Miss Evans," he greets. "I see you're preparing for the Reaping."

Adrianne rolls her eyes. "Unfortunately."

Jack clears his throat—a wordless sign to let the two men get back to work. Adrianne doesn't usually sit through the talks, mostly because it feels so stuffy and _too_ formal for her tastes. She'd rather work overtime with the other spearfishers than talk business politics. She holds her hands out to Jack in a begging gesture, quickly whispering, "Can I just talk to him for a minute? Please, Jack?"

Jack grins at her. "I'll give you five, Chinook."

She wastes no time leading Melvin to the couch, sitting him down and smoothing out her dress as she joins him. She's known the man for a while thanks to Jack's business, and the two share the same concerns when it comes to the victors who come back from harrowing Games.

"How's Shell going?" she asks. Adrianne watches his expression carefully, waiting for a sign that something's wrong.

Melvin simply rubs his jaw thoughtfully. "She's still trying to get the Capitol to let Undine move in with her as an aide," he reports. "A doctor came last week. Dunno what they offered her, but even I could hear her screaming for them to get lost and go screw themselves. And that's putting it nicely," he adds with a wink.

Adrianne rolls her eyes. There have been rumours floating around that Shell's been offered surgery to restore her sight. Even before leaving for the Games, Shell had always been too proud to accept the easy way out—so her _censored_ rejection, according to Melvin, makes a lot of sense.

"Is anyone spending time with her?" she adds. Melvin looks at her in disbelief. "I'm worried. I don't want her left on her own, but none of us can stay in the Victors' Village with her. I'll be amazed if Undine gets permission to even just _visit_."

"Miss Evans," Melvin says softly, "Shell is a capable girl. She's had a good year to adjust, and I can assure you that she isn't isolating herself from the other victors. She comes to our sessions and talks to Mr. Odair regularly."

"And they're not…" Adrianne hesitates for a second. "They're not forcing her to mentor anyone yet?"

Melvin is silent. He inhales deeply, a hand rubbing his brow as he thinks on his answer. Adrianne's stomach starts to churn.

"They've given her until her nineteenth birthday to prepare for mentoring. Finnick tried to negotiate and emphasise her… _disability_ ," he chokes out with reluctance, "but Head Gamemaker Nero refuses to budge. She says that she's being flexible enough by granting Shell another two years."

" _Bastards_ ," Adrianne hisses. She quickly catches herself and mumbles an apology to Melvin. The man simply waves a hand at her, groaning as he rises from the couch. Their five minutes are up, though there's no sign of Jack in the room yet.

Melvin fixes his scarf as he picks up his jacket. He always keeps warm clothing on hand, and it always gets Adrianne's hopes up that it'll rain at some point in the day. "You needn't worry, Miss Evans," he reassures her. "She may be put up for mentorship in two years, but we still have the option to volunteer for mentorship. With luck, Shell won't have to do anything for another decade."

"Thanks, Mr. Pike." Adrianne nods to him. "And tell Mr. Odair that I'm glad he's helping her."

Melvin laughs softly. "Why wouldn't he? Shell reminds him of Annie—he's not going to let her suffer through the aftereffects of the Games on her own."

The words are comforting, at the very least. She's been worried about Shell for a while, about whether or not she'll be required to mentor like the others, but knowing that the legendary Finnick Odair is personally seeing to her needs gives her some form of hope.

She's asked everything she needs to, her worries calmed somewhat. Jack hasn't come back into the room yet, but the way Melvin moves for the study makes it clear he knows where he needs to go. Adrianne sits there for a few seconds—even when the door shuts and the room falls silent, left alone with her thoughts.

She should start heading off to the Justice Building. There's nothing for her to finish here, no further concerns to address. Plus, it's not like it can hurt to arrive early.

The small town Jack had settled the two of them in, where Adrianne became known as the pseudo-Career among the younger kids, is a fair distance from the city; a good half an hour of walking, another fifteen minutes of navigating to the city centre. She considers herself lucky that she doesn't live farther away, given District 4's size, but it can get a bit lonely walking on her own.

Some walks to the city come with company, though not all of them are ideal. The Academy that some of the kids train at isn't far from Adrianne's own town, and through some stroke of luck—be it good or bad—she'll wind up running into at least one of them before she makes it to the city centre. This is what happens as she fixes her hair and fishes a pebble out of one of her flats, the hooting and hollering of pro-Capitol Careers drawing closer and closer. It's a small group from the sound of them, but they're loud and sound cockier than even some of the victors.

Adrianne chews at her lip. She's not big on these kinds of Careers. As much as she loves tough guys and appreciates the rugged appearance of them, it's the personalities of some that make her uncomfortable. When the time comes for her to start a relationship, maybe have some kids, she'll look for a manly man in appearance—but anyone like the five teens that approach her from one of the bushy paths is off the table.

There's one in the lead—baby-faced boy, though his broad shoulders and overall height suggest he's closer to eighteen—while the other four cackle along with him, punching each other's shoulders and bragging about how they'd win and what they'd take as a token. But they're not volunteering this year—no, they make it perfectly clear every five seconds that they're going to wait until the "wannabes" give up trying to be heroic. The boy at the front nods in agreement every time they bring it up, and for a second Adrianne thinks they'll ignore her completely and just walk past her as she moves to the side of the path.

But they notice. Damn this frilly white dress, they notice.

"Chinook, hey!" the one girl of the group calls out. She's Mira's older sister—only related through their dads, from what Adrianne hears—and she certainly likes Adrianne more than Mira does.

"Hey," Adrianne says tiredly. Delta breaks away from the group and almost latches onto Adrianne's side, wide grin on her face. They're the same age, but Delta acts more like she's thirteen than seventeen. Adrianne's wondered at times if she does it on purpose.

"You volunteering this year? Have you seen the mentor yet?" Delta tugs at Adrianne's arm as her friends finally catch up. "Who do you think'll—"

Baby Face scoffs loudly, startling Delta. She loses track of what she was asking and looks back to him like an eager puppy.

"What's it matter what Evans has to say?" Baby Face whines. Adrianne's brow twitches at his tone. "After the last few years, it's pretty obvious she wants nothing to do with it."

After the last few deaths, he means. The faces of Jett and Brook break into the forefront of her mind, a smiling, seeing Shell between them. Compared to the competitive rivalries and hero worship that happens in the Academy, Adrianne's losses were a lot more impactful than the ones they've suffered in the past.

She merely shrugs at him. Baby Face clearly wants to command the attention here, so why should she bother raining on his parade? Adrianne picks up the speed of her walk, intending to leave them behind to their own conversation; she almost doesn't make it ten feet away from them before the chatter about how they'd win the Games begins to get on her nerves.

Glory be to those who win. But screw everyone who thinks killing other children for sport is the best way to get that glory. Adrianne practically breaks into a sprint when Shell gets brought up by Delta—she has no doubt that Baby Face will be a gigantic ass about the topic—and doesn't stop running until she sees the outskirts of the city.

* * *

"Adrianne Evans?"

Adrianne nods as she sucks on her finger. The official points to the far end of the city centre, to the slowly gathering group of girls. "Seventeens section. Next!"

The walk to the section feels almost foreboding. Children glance at her, stern-faced and nervous, as the older teens try to keep brave faces. For a Career District, Adrianne can't help noticing how reluctant everyone seems to be to participate. Even Baby Face, who seems to have just arrived, looks a little uncertain of his earlier boasts. When Adrianne lines up with the other seventeen year-old-girls, none of them whisper their usual greeting of, "Hey, Chinook."

It's quiet. Painfully quiet. Adrianne can't stand it.

She shuffles back and forth as she waits for everything to proceed. The mayor taking a seat, the Capitol officials checking the microphone and cameras. The escort reading over his schedule as one of his assistants fixes his coat. Adrianne chews her lip and picks at the skirt of her dress, unable to ignore the ominous air around her. The mayor reads his speech and thanks his citizens for gathering today, and then it's time for the escort to do his thing.

Crowley has got to be the least perky escort Adrianne's ever heard of. He doesn't dress in all bright colours—only muted hues and varying shades of brown—and he never smiles like the other escorts do when they go through with the Reaping. He's only been here for the last two years, transferring up after Shell's victory, and Adrianne can tell that the lanky man doesn't like it here. He used to be the escort for District 2, now disappointed to be in the lowest Career District thanks to Shell's victory.

It serves him right, Adrianne thinks as he fixes the microphone. If District 4 can stand to lose a good chunk of its kids, then Crowley can deal with not getting his preferred District.

His assistants drag the Reaping Ball to his side. Everyone immediately stills, gazes locked on the giant glass ball as Crowley surveys the crowd. He looks like he's surveying the potential Tributes; she wouldn't be surprised if he has a few faces in mind that he hopes will volunteer.

"Welcome to District Four's Reaping for the Fourth Quarter Quell," he says monotonously into the microphone. He isn't looking at any of the kids, instead focusing on the cameras littered through the crowd. "My name is Crowley and I'll be your escort this year. Before we pick a name, it'd be my honour to introduce this year's mentor."

He couldn't make it sound any more like he has better places to be. Adrianne clenches her fists tightly and takes a steadying breath. At least Shell isn't the one that has to deal with the man this year, she reminds herself. At least there's that.

There's weak, slow clapping as Melvin takes the stage—Adrianne's taken aback for a few seconds, though it's easy enough to overcome—and Crowley doesn't even bother to give the man a chance to deliver words of encouragement. At least it's not _Shell_ , Adrianne has to remind herself again.

"As you all know, Mr. Pike won the Eighty-Sixth Games," Crowley drones on. She can see in his exhausted expression that he doesn't consider Melvin a real winner—the man won because he lasted through the hypothermia longer than the boy from Six did, but any victory is a big one for District 4. One of their kids came back, and not a single drop of blood was staining his hands when he stepped off that train. That's all they can ask for. "He'll be looking after one of you and your Capitol partner. Now, let's start the Reaping."

A few whispers break out. The girls in front of Adrianne—sisters?—grab each other's hands desperately. They must be one of the few who take tesserae, because why else would they look so panicked when their names are mixed with the boys'? Adrianne's never had to take tesserae, and she knows with all her heart that if they don't get pulled out, then her own name may as well be non-existent.

One little slip is pulled out by a gloved hand. Crowley sighs heavily, snapping the paper open and reading over the name silently. He leans into the microphone, a cautionary glance at the slip taken as he announces, "Marlowe Walton."

A shriek comes from the back of the crowd. It's not an adult—too young to even be a young parent—and immediately her mind jumps to one conclusion: A twelve-year-old.

He's scrawny and looks more like a porcelain doll than an actual child, skin too pale to belong to someone from District 4. A Peacekeeper has to drag him away, down the middle aisle as horrified teens watch the snot run from his nose and the tears stain his cheeks.

"I'm not ready!" Marlowe screeches. "Please— _I'M NOT READY_!"

His voice is so shrill it could break glass. Adrianne clamps her hands over her ears, squeezes her eyes shut as he gets closer and closer to the seventeens' group. Even through the barrier of her hands, as she hums softly to herself to block him out, Marlowe's pleas are difficult to ignore.

 _Stop_ , she repeats over and over in her head. It's too much to sit through, too nerve-wracking to even think about.

Marlowe must have wiggled out of the Peacekeeper's grasp, because suddenly people are shuffling around and knocking into Adrianne as they move back. They don't want to be near him as he runs for the back of the crowd, screaming for his father. It's almost like he's bad luck, like he's an infection—one second of eye contact with him will jeopardise their resolve to stay home another year.

He's tackled to the ground and slapped harshly across the face. Adrianne can hear Melvin protest, Crowley's bored voice telling him that the Tribute needs to come onstage. All the while, Marlowe's sobs become louder and harsher, his voice sounding as raw as Adrianne's feels.

She can't take this. It's too much, too difficult to sit through. She's never even met Marlowe Walton before today, shouldn't worry about him as much as she's beginning to—but his screams are just _too much_. Adrianne would be just as bad as the kids who relish in the murder, the Capitolites who cheer with every drop of blood shed, if she keeps her mouth shut.

Her voice sounds hoarse as she opens her mouth, as she yells as loud as she can to overpower Marlowe's screams: "I'll do it!"

Everything seems to freeze at the sound of her voice. There's no doubt everyone heard her—but the eerie silence and countless stares trained on her suggests they're struggling to comprehend what she's done. Honestly, even Adrianne is struggling to understand her actions as panic rises in her chest.

Even Baby Face is surprised, and his mouth opens and closes like a fish's as Marlowe is released. The Peacekeeper advances on Adrianne, looking ready to expect a fight once she's escorted out of her line; he doesn't expect her to just meet him halfway, to ask for help getting to the stage in one piece.

Melvin embraces her tightly with a strangled, "Oh, Chinook," under his breath. Neither of them had seen this coming during their talk, and now neither of them has a choice to back out. Melvin is the mentor for the Fourth Quell, and Adrianne his Tribute. Crowley doesn't look bothered in the slightest by the show of grief. He ends the Reaping, dismisses the teens as he follows his assistants off of the stage.

Adrianne and Melvin practically sprint inside the Justice Building. Through the crowd, there's a clean view of Jack doing the same—even knocking other parents over uncharacteristically in his wake.

There's panic, then anger. Melvin yells at Adrianne for throwing away her life, and Adrianne just whispers, "It was too much."

Then comes sadness. Melvin tugs tightly at his scarf, drops his coat as his lip starts to quiver. He tells Adrianne that he doesn't know if he can teach her enough to come home. Adrianne just whispers, "I know."

When Jack bursts in, they've arrived at acceptance. Adrianne is in the Games, no question about it. Not even Melvin joins in with Jack's pleas to try and get out of volunteering. He just stares out the window, squeezing the bridge of his nose as he ignores his friend. Adrianne doesn't say a word through his begging, waits until he stops to process the situation to whisper, "I'm sorry."

She spends the rest of the goodbyes fiddling with the dulled shark tooth around her neck. Jack sits in the chair beside her with his head in his hands. Melvin paces as they all wait for their allotted time to end. The black string holding the tooth is too short to simply pull over her head and remove—and really, she doesn't want to. It's the only thing natural about her that she's wearing. This damn sundress, the fancy leather flats; it's not her.

"Would…" Adrianne inhales sharply as she raises her voice. "Would this pass regulations?"

Melvin freezes. Jack's head snaps up. They're surprised to hear her speak.

The tooth is inspected, a finger run over its edges and the engravings on it. Melvin frowns and lets out a thoughtful hum, before finally delivering a verdict. " _Barely_ ," he says. "If you want that with you in the arena, be prepared to try and harm yourself with it to convince everyone it can't serve as a weapon."

Adrianne nods. Should be easy enough—she's slept with it around her neck countless times, woken up to it digging into her shoulder; never sharp enough to draw blood, even with her full weight against it.

The time for goodbyes comes to a close, and it's a fairly quiet affair. Jack and Adrianne shake hands politely before giving each other a parting hug. Melvin puts a hand on her shoulder in support as Jack is escorted out. All that's left to do is get on the train and meet her Capitol partner.

* * *

 **That's District 4 done! Hope you guys enjoyed it, be sure to let me know what you thought ^^ I'll see you all in District 5!**

 **Also, for those wondering about the mentors - there will be a chapter dedicated to introducing each of them as a sort of interlude, just to give an idea of what the tributes are going to be in for during their training!**


	6. Pained People Pleaser

**OKAY SO MAJOR WARNING FOR THE FIRST SECTION! If you're uncomfortable reading transphobia, please please _please_ skip ahead to the second section of the chapter. I'll mark it with the word "muttation" just before it starts, bolded and capitalised, so either use Crtl + F to skip ahead or just scroll until you see it.**

 **Warning aside, this little cinnamon roll was sent in by** CelticGames4 **! I really hope he came out okay and that I kept his personality consistent ^^"**

* * *

 **05 - Pained People Pleaser**

It comes as no surprise that the fist to his jaw hurts like hell. He drops to the ground and cradles his chin with a hiss, helpless as they circle around him.

Today must not be Tooru's lucky day.

It's not an uncommon occurrence, the harassment; but he'd at least hoped that Douglass would leave him be with the Reaping preparations going on around them. Tooru curls in on himself, groaning as the ache in his jaw starts to make his head throb. That'll definitely bruise.

"Where you heading, Ikeda?" Douglass asks condescendingly. Tooru tries to put the smile back on his face—he doesn't want to be rude if he manages to muster up a reply.

At the sight of Tooru's smile, Douglass laughs. It's a cruel, bitter laugh—but Tooru likes to think that there's a manner of joking behind it all. "Look at her dumb smile," Douglass laughs as he elbows one of his friends. The incorrect pronoun hits Tooru harder than he'd want to admit, but he doesn't let the smile slip. Everything takes time, even if it's painful being patient.

"It's 'h—his'," Tooru corrects meekly. Douglass only laughs harder, almost doubling over and resting his hands on his knees. Surely he's just jesting, trying to include Tooru in the usual rough and tumble Douglass and his friends are known for. "Y—You'll get it eventually, don't worry."

"Dumbass," Douglass wheezes. He motions to one of his friends, and suddenly Tooru is being hauled to his feet roughly. Tooru knew it—he knew Douglass wanted to make peace with him!

And then another friend flanks his side, grasping Tooru's arm tightly. He can't feel his arms with how hard both boys grip them, leaving him to dangle in their grasps.

"Hold her still." Douglass cracks his knuckles loudly. There is no peace in his eyes, only malice. Tooru prepares for the worst.

Just as the fist is about to collide with Tooru's gut, something stops Douglass. It's not mercy or politeness that intervenes like Tooru always hopes, but the person who embodies those qualities is just as welcome a sight. Douglass almost freezes at the sound of Donovan's voice, a look of annoyance crossing the tall boy's features before he lowers the fist.

It's no secret that Donovan Fabbri and Douglass Jones dislike each other. They never sit peacefully in the same room, never agree on anything—even in their choice of friends. It really should be no surprise that Donovan had come to Tooru's rescue the moment he saw Douglass was about to strike him, but the relief floods through him like a surge of energy nonetheless.

"Screw it," Douglass spits. "She's no fun, anyway."

Donovan strides past the taller boy as his friends release Tooru. Tooru stumbles to the ground with a grunt, limbs too heavy to hold himself up. "Misgendering people isn't exactly fun, either," Donovan points out. More hope in Tooru's chest—Donovan always corrects people where Tooru can't! "Suppose your idea of fun is quite skewed, though. Get lost before I report this to our teachers."

Douglass just strides past him, a smug look on his face. "Like they even care about poor little Tomoko."

" _Tooru_." Donovan glares at the taller boy. "If you're going to insult him, at least do it with the right name."

There's no response. The small gang simply walks out of the alley and start cackling at each other, mimicking Tooru's smile and mocking him. Donovan doesn't bother to pick more of a fight, instead turning for Tooru and offering a hand to help him up. It's easy for Donovan to lift his small form, but difficult for Tooru to stay on his feet once they're planted firmly on the ground.

"Thanks," he exhales shakily. He offers Donovan a smile, but it isn't returned. "S—Sorry you had to get involved."

"You owe me," Donovan informs him. Tooru flinches, but the smile doesn't leave his face. "That's the third time this fortnight I've had to get you out of a beatdown."

"I—I'll make it up to you," Tooru babbles. He rakes through his mind for ways he can return the favour, but struggles to come up with something new. He's already doing the next two weeks' worth of math homework for the two of them, as well as taking over for Donovan's shifts in class duties. What more is there available for Tooru to do? "Maybe I can help with some of your other work."

Donovan shrugs, but he smiles at the smaller boy this time. "Think you can handle cleaning up a garden?"

"Absolutely! When and where?"

There's a small hiss before Donovan says, "Today, actually. I've gotta get ready for some family stuff and I won't have time to clean the guy's garden."

Ah. Today. Tooru wipes at his chin—oh dear, that blood better come out of his sleeve when it gets washed—and nods. "That's fine. I'll… I'll clean up and then head over."

"Knew I could count on you, Tooru." Donovan shoves a hand into the pocket of his vest. He pulls out a slip of paper with an address scrawled on it, wasting no time shoving it into Tooru's hand. "That's the place. Just tell 'em I sent you and they'll let you in."

He reads over the address as Donovan starts to leave. The street sounds familiar, but Tooru feels like he's been told not to go to it before. Like he's been warned against it by more than just his parents and teachers—like the entirety of District 5 forbids him from entering.

The Victors' Village. It hits him like a blast of cold water. The address is inside the Victors' Village—but why is Donovan cleaning a garden there? He looks up to voice this, to get more information, but by the time he finds his voice Donovan is gone.

The walk home is lonely and filled with shame, but at least he doesn't waste any time crossing the streets and avoiding the gazes of everyone. By the time he walks inside, the blood on his chin and lip is dried, while the skin beneath his eye begins to swell and feels sensitive to the touch.

Cliona Ikeda, in all her strict, overbearing glory, jumps right into a lecture when she catches sight of him. Tooru's face hurts as he fishes through the medicine box for disinfectant—"You can clean that up yourself," Cliona had yelled—and his mother's voice is all but drowned out by the throbbing in his jaw. They can't afford to keep buying medical supplies if he can't stay out of trouble, she nags. Tooru will never get into a good university and become an upstanding member of society, she recites. For crying out loud, why can't he just go back to being Tomoko, she sighs.

Tooru practically snaps at her. He's got a small ice pack pressed to his cheek as he pulls the bloodied tissue away from his lip, only to wipe at it again as he splits the wound further in between yells. Cliona stares at him with a stunned expression, brown eyes wide and mixing shock with anger. There's no doubt that the neighbours can hear him, but he doesn't care. It takes time for people to accept something as big as coming out as transgender, but it doesn't help that his own mother is one of the majority waiting for him to put the dresses back on.

When he cuts himself off, tears threatening to spill over, Cliona jumps in again. How dare he yell at her so disrespectfully—doesn't he know what she has to put up with, day in and day out, just to keep food on the table? He shakes his head and tucks the medicine box under his arm. Cliona yells at him to sit down and listen to her, to apologise, but Tooru just runs past her and toward his room.

He shoves his cabinet under the doorknob so she can't come in. Locks were always too expensive to keep track of, what with how many keys they'd have to get cut, but tucking something under the knob does just as good a job. Cliona doesn't chase after him—a small relief as she gives up yelling for him—and Tooru is left in peace to clean his face. The mirror hanging next to his bed is rather small, too small for delicate work, but it's big enough for him to see what needs to be tended to.

All it takes is five minutes, and then he's looking just a little more handsome than before. That's how he feels, at least—how he wishes someone would say he is, like how his father calls him during the rare moments Tooru gets to spend time with him. Katsu's most handsomest son, his father declared him. Tooru laughs almost bitterly to himself as he wonders whether Katsu would still think such a thing as soon as he sees the black eye and swollen jaw.

He doesn't bother removing the cabinet from his door. With a sharp inhale to steel himself, Tooru heaves open his window and crawls out as best he can.

* * *

 **MUTTATION**

It's a miracle the Peacekeepers even let him in, but one mention of Donovan's name was apparently all he really had needed. Tooru strides inside with a smile as he hears one of them mutter, "Damned troublemakers."

It must be the mess his face is in, he decides.

He's still smiling as he breaks into a slow run, searching up and down the streets of the Victors' Village for the house listed on the paper. It takes a while to find—some houses have been abandoned, probably because of the old winners dying of old age and their families being moved out—but he soon spots the giant garden that leads to 31 Porter Millicent Lane. It's filled to the brim with flowers he can't say he's ever seen before, high hedges creating an almost maze-like effect as Tooru gazes through the gateway.

As he navigates his way through, he comes across many messes and vandalised ornaments. A rosebush drenched in oil, a garden gnome missing its head as the marble statue of a large dog is covered with eggshells and yolk. Tooru almost winces at the sight of it all, at the thought that someone had gone out of their way to just destroy this poor person's garden. This poor person's lovely, lovely garden.

When he knocks on the door, he hears the crash of a body against the other side. Multiple clicks of locks being slid open reach him, only to stop after the seventh click. The door cracks open a peek, a small chain stopping it from letting so much as a hand fit through comfortably, as a single blue eye stares down at Tooru with suspicion.

"What?" an aging voice croaks out, a strong smell of tobacco wafting through the door. Tooru coughs once, tries to muffle any others that come up.

"I'm—" He clears his throat. "I'm here on behalf of Donovan Fabbri."

A dissatisfied huff. "Damn brat couldn't come do it 'imself," the man grumbles. He slams the door shut, the chain lock sliding until it comes free of its slot. The door opens once again, and Tooru is face-to-face with a vaguely familiar man.

District 5 doesn't boast about Victors much, mostly because they don't get a lot. They don't have jobs or activities that make it easier for them to win Games, and most that come back go into hiding. Not even Porter Millicent Tripp stayed out and about for long after her Tour due to her back injury, so it's no surprise that Tooru doesn't immediately recognise the wrinkled old man in front of him. He gets flashes of images, faces he's seen working with Katsu at Coriolanus 9, until he musters up the courage to ask this weathered victor a question.

"Are you… Are you related to Thomas Jackson?" Tooru asks quietly. The man's silver brows rise in surprise, and he quickly leans against the frame of the door as he crosses his arms in front of his chest.

"What's it to you?"

"Y—You look really similar, and I just thought—"

" _First mistake_!" the man bellows. Tooru jumps, squeaking in surprise. His voice echoes through the street, leaving a lump of fear to build up in Tooru's stomach. "Never make assumptions based on appearance alone. Even if you're technically right," he adds lamely.

"So you are…?"

The man nods. All aggression is gone from his voice, his stance going from tense to relaxed in a matter of seconds. "Thomas is my oldest. Surprised you even know him. Bit of a pompous dick, he is."

"O—Oh…"

"'S not important. You here to clean the garden?" Thomas's father squints down at Tooru, suddenly tense again. "You're not one of the brats who trashed it, are you?"

"No, no! I came to fill in for Donovan—he said he had to do some work here but didn't have the time."

"I thought you were Donovan." There's surprise in his face. His expression keeps changing with every sentence exchanged, like he can't decide what emotion he should rest on his face.

"I'm Tooru. Tooru Ikeda." Tooru holds out a hand, waiting for Thomas's father to shake it. He doesn't.

"Adam." He says it matter-of-factly, and it takes Tooru a moment to realise that it's his name. Adam Jackson. "The hell happened to your face?"

Tooru waves his hand dismissively, trying not to let his smile slip now that conversation is picking up between them. "Just a misunderstanding. You need me to clean the garden?"

Adam stares down at him for a moment. The cold gaze of his eyes, almost sizing Tooru up, sends a chill down the fourteen-year-old's spine. He's a big man, built like a bodybuilder; definitely doesn't look like the type to tend to a garden like this.

"Need a towel and bucket," Adam says, mostly to himself. Tooru can only watch as the man hobbles on back into his home, leaving the teen to wait awkwardly at his doorstep for a few minutes. He can hear water running and cupboards opening and closing, and then Adam walks out of the house with a fold-out chair tucked under his arm and a bucket of soapy water cradled in the other.

"Start with the statues," Adam orders. "Flowers'll grow back eventually."

Tooru almost stumbles back as the bucket is shoved into his chest. Adam doesn't look sorry in the slightest, nodding to the statues impatiently. As Tooru steps back into the garden with expert care, he can hear the fold-out chair click open; Adam wastes no time sitting on it and pulling a pipe from his pocket, a box of matchsticks tucked under his smaller fingers. Tooru barely wastes any time starting on the closest statue. It's shaped like a dog and definitely looks like one from a distance, but now that he leans in front of it he can see something's… _off_.

"That one's Sam Corduroy," Adam tells him gruffly. Tooru jumps, dropping the towel gracelessly onto the ground in his fright. "Easy, Tory. It's not the real thing."

"Tooru," the boy says under his breath. He doubts Adam hears him, doubts that it'll stick. The man seems to have trouble remembering even similar sounding names—even twice thought that Tooru was Donovan. "Who's Sam Corduroy?"

Adam flicks a match against the box. It ignites with a loud hiss, and then goes out just as quickly once the tobacco in his pipe is set alight. "District Eight boy," he recalls with a wheeze. At a glance, Tooru can see the smoke billowing out of Adam's nostrils. "He was the first one I killed. First mutt they sent after me, too."

"They?"

"The Gamemakers. Who else would make those beasts?"

He has a point. Tooru wrings the towel until it's slightly damp, and then gets to work wiping "Sam Corduroy's" face. As the eggshells slip away and the yolk peels off, it's easier to see the humanoid shape of the dog's face. Definitely a statue modeled after a mutt.

"How do you think I killed him, Toner?" Adam asks. He coughs lightly, but is quick to shut himself up with another inhale of smoke.

In all honesty, Tooru doesn't want to think about it. The Hunger Games are scary enough at just the Reaping stage, and he never likes thinking about what horrors the 5 kids have to face when they're in the arenas. His family doesn't have enough money for a TV to watch it on, leaving him one of the fortunate few who doesn't have to sit through the carnage the Capitol revels in.

But with a sharp inhale, wiping the yolk from Sam Corduroy's paw, Tooru replies, "Did you mercy kill him?"

Adam lets out a bellow of a laugh. Tooru flinches, almost drops the towel a second time. "Hell no!" Adam cackles. "I took a scythe in the bloodbath and drove it through his chest. Boy died slower than anyone else."

Tooru takes a steeling breath. _He won't throw up, he won't think about it, he won't throw up_. Instead he tries to think about what Sam Corduroy looked like—what Tooru's always imagined people from District 8 to be like. Glamourous and constantly pumping out beautiful clothing from their factories, modelling the latest fashions that the Capitol enjoys. He pictures Sam as a handsome boy, modelling a suit made from the most beautiful silk.

"After Sammy was the girl from Ten, I think," Adam goes on, and Tooru immediately tries to blot out the method of death he describes. Instead, he imagines the District 10 girl—Lulu Banks, Adam calls her—dressed in overalls and sporting the very same cowboy hats Tooru sees in pamphlets that come from the chariot rides. Lulu's only twelve, according to Adam, and Tooru immediately pictures her as the youngest of at least six; a family of Southern belles that run an illustrious cattle farm.

Once Tooru finishes cleaning Sam Corduroy, the next mutt statue he moves onto is jovially referred to as Oliver Seethe from District 7. The mutt statue has a hulking form, with an almost angry look to its gaze as Tooru wipes its face.

"Oh, Oliver was such a spitfire," Adam laughs. He slides down his seat and runs a hand through his hair. "Almost allied with him, but then I pissed him off by wanting to stick with strategizing rather than brute force."

That sounds typical of District 7, from what Tooru's heard. They always seem to be hulking, dumb lumberjacks who focus on being tough. Sometimes they win, but more often than not they're dead by the top five. Looking at Oliver's statue, he pictures the boy as inhumanly burly—maybe even with the beginnings of a beard along his jaw—as he yells loudly about how tough he is.

"Did they make everyone into mutts?" Tooru jumps in once Adam stops talking. The old man gazes out at the statues almost wistfully as he ponders the question.

"Some of 'em already were mutts," he says. "Just had to shed their human skin to show their true selves."

"Sounds sort of scary," Tooru laughs softly.

Adam lets out a bitter, "HA," as he jumps out of his chair. He pulls a tin from his jacket and rips it open, then makes short work of stuffing more tobacco into his pipe. "Fear's for the weak," he announces proudly. "No one gets anywhere through fear. You have to turn that flight instinct into _exhilaration_ if you want to volunteer and face off against twenty-three peers."

Oliver's clean by the time Adam says this. As Tooru moves on to another small mutt, he says, "I don't want to volunteer. I'd rather avoid the Games entirely."

The old man scoffs, clearly disgusted. "No one ever wants to volunteer 'round here. Bunch of pussies, they are."

"Did you volunteer?"

That's a question that stumps him. Adam raises his brows thoughtfully as he inhales from his pipe with wide eyes. He watches Tooru with an almost quizzical gaze, like he's waiting for Tooru to provide the answers.

"I don't think I remember, Tony," he mutters. "Fancy that."

"What Game did you win?"

"Fifty...eighth. What're we up to now?"

"It's the Fourth Quell."

A look of clarity passes the old man's face. "Ah, yes. One hundred. When's the Reaping? It's close to the Reaping day, yes?"

Amazing, Tooru thinks. He can remember the fleeting lives of his kills, but something as big as his own life decisions and the anniversaries of his Games slip his mind like newly learned birthdays.

"It's today, actually," Tooru tells him with a sweet smile. "They moved the time to eleven for our Reaping so that the Capitol kids could have time to prepare for their own."

" _Astounding_ ," Adam whispers. "Why aren't you getting ready?"

Tooru gestures widely to the destroyed garden. The answer should be pretty obvious.

"Yes, right." The old victor rubs his brow tiredly. "Maybe… Maybe spend another half hour on the kids. They won't be going anywhere. If Donovan can't come do it himself, just let yourself in."

"If you're sure," Tooru says slowly. Adam merely nods as he glances in every direction, seemingly looking for something to come into view. "Mr. Jackson?"

Adam hums curiously.

"Why did you keep statues of the people you killed?"

Adam tilts his head ever so slightly. He doesn't look at Tooru as he lets out another thoughtful hum. "Pride, maybe. A sort of memorial." He sounds almost uncertain of the words, like they don't fit the reasoning he's thinking of.

"Guilt?" Tooru suggests.

" _No._ Never guilt. They all had it coming." Adam inhales through his pipe, exhales the smoke through his nostrils. "No, it was something different. I was… _happy_ when I decided to do it."

Tooru doesn't say much else to him after that. Adam prattles on about another mutt statue—a lanky boy from District 12 named Mica Halliday, eighteen and the oldest Tribute of them all—and even goes into detail about how Mica Halliday had come to his untimely end. All the while Tooru can't help imagining a sickly thin boy with those trademark Seam looks, pulverised to death by the young Adam Jackson with a club as he laughs that bitter laugh.

* * *

Donovan smacks his hand hard against Tooru's back. Tooru can't help the small groan he lets out, the pain of the wind rushing from his lungs leaving a sting in his chest.

"There's my guy," Donovan cheers. He falls into step beside Tooru, walking speedily along the sidewalk. "How'd it all go with the errand?"

"It was interesting," Tooru wheezes. He fixes his binder as best he can through his shirt. Donovan at least looks away politely to save him the embarrassment. "He only had me clean his mutt statues. Even forgot what today was." He lets out a weak laugh.

Donovan raises his brows. "Sounds like a loony."

"He thought I was you. Kept going on about kids trashing his yard."

"Hm. Yeah, I heard some kids broke in last night. I offered to help, but family comes first—y'know?"

He does. Tooru just can't say _everyone_ in his family sees things the same way. "How'd your thing go, anyway?"

"Fine. Just had to help finish up some homework for my sister." He drops the subject almost immediately. Almost sounds as though he needs to go somewhere else. "You're meeting with Shanell, right? Before the Reaping?"

Tooru nods with a great, big smile on his face. Meeting with Nelly is one of his favourite things during the Reapings. "I'm heading over now. Do you wanna…?"

Donovan snorts out a laugh. "She doesn't like me," he says. "Have fun meeting with her. I'll go look for something to do to pass the time." As Donovan begins to walk away, he calls over his shoulder to Tooru, "Eleven, sharp!"

Tooru waves after him. Watches as Donovan disappears through the winding streets and between the various apartments lining the pavement. He's left on his own, almost no one leaving their houses yet as the streets remain blissfully bare. Tooru can finally let his smile slip, let his swollen cheek rest.

He rubs his jaw—cringes at the pain he feels upon contact—as he jogs down the pavement in the direction of his house. It'll be some time till Nelly arrives, what with her living a whole _hour_ away from the Justice Building, and it won't hurt to take a breather before telling her about his day. He sneaks over fences, almost getting his shirt caught on the large chip jutting out from an old picket fence; a good ten or so minutes of wandering pass before he finds the small walkway that leads to the back of his own house, visible only from his bedroom's window.

His _sealed_ bedroom's window. As far as Tooru's concerned, Cliona won't notice him come home—or even having left in the first place. He climbs through the window, still open after all this time. His feet land on the hardwood floor loudly, but no sounds of alarm come from further in the house. He exhales with relief.

Keeping up the smile has been especially painful today, he thinks as he shuffles through his room quietly. Maybe if he hadn't been punched in the face, it'd be easier, but his experience while cleaning Adam's statues has him uncertain if this much is true. Maybe today's a day that Tooru's just tried too hard to stay sunny, backfiring with so much bad luck that even a black cat would pity him. He rubs the side of his face free of bruising, feels the sore muscles complain. Tooru wonders if he should have a nap, a short rest, once the Reaping is over and done with.

He places the now lukewarm ice pack on his face in a last ditch attempt to lessen the swelling. It's a little harder to see out of one eye, but at least he's not blinded by his eyelids puffing up entirely. It'll go down—he just has to wait it out and avoid doing anything that requires decent depth perception.

As Tooru checks his reflection to see if he needs to check his lip again, a knock sounds from his door. At first he panics, thinking that Cliona has figured out he's returned. But then Katsu's voice comes through, a sympathetic, "You in there, kiddo?" that melts away all of Tooru's anxiety.

He struggles to shove his cabinet out from under the knob, but once he does he flings the door open with a smile. Katsu looks down at him with an equally bright one of his own—only to have it slip once the man catches sight of Tooru's face.

Katsu ushers his son back into his bedroom and shuts the door quietly, lowering his voice to a whisper. Tooru can't help wondering if Cliona is still home. "You okay?" Katsu asks softly. He reaches for the ice pack, only to hesitate as Tooru steps away from him.

"'M fine," Tooru says distantly. Katsu sighs down at him as he sits on Tooru's bed. "Didn't cry about it, either."

"Tooru, I don't—" Katsu cuts himself off and sighs again, this time more tiredly. "Who cares if you cry or not?"

"Mom. Kids at school. Everyone."

His father frowns at him almost sadly. "It can't hurt to—" Katsu cuts himself off once more, though this time he changes the subject once he continues. "Can I ask how you got the shiner?"

Tooru shrugs his shoulders. "Just Douglass again. He'll learn eventually. It's like you say, everyone takes time to get used to change."

The man smiles ever so slightly. "You've got me there," he sighs. "Just do me a favour and let me know if it gets too much to handle on your own. Boyhood isn't about taking a beating with a curled lip—it should be a fun time of finding yourself and making your mark."

He tries to argue, but can't find it in him to push out the words. By all accounts, Katsu's right; boyhood shouldn't be all roughhousing and insults. Tooru should be enjoying his time as a young man before adulthood takes over. He nods slowly, readjusting his ice pack. "Okay," Tooru says with a small smile.

Katsu looks almost satisfied by Tooru's answer. He ruffles his son's hair affectionately as he makes his way to the door, keeping his footsteps silent. With a final whisper, Katsu says, "Head off and hang out with Nelly while you can. I'll talk with Clio and see how long I can stay after the Reaping."

Tooru nods. He watches Katsu leave the room, door shut softly behind him, and then he's left alone with a now warm ice pack to his face.

He climbs carefully out the window again, leaving the ice pack on the bed. Ever so slowly, as the sight of the Justice Building peeking through the apartments grows closer, Tooru can feel his smile coming back. He sprints down paths and bounds past the slowly growing rows of children leaving early, doesn't even notice that he's passed Douglass and a few other kids in his class.

Nelly's been Tooru's best friend for a while. They both live a good distance from the town square—Tooru spends a good forty minutes walking on a good day, while Nelly lives a whole hour in the opposite direction—and used to be next to each other in the Reapings. She was the first person he confided in when he wanted to come out, and the distance between their homes doesn't even leave an impact on how much they trust each other. Tooru can always rely on Nelly, can look to her for help, and Nelly can do the same with him.

He shaves off a good ten minutes in his journey by running. The day's events are long forgotten as he gets closer and closer to the meeting spot. He has to skid to a stop, stumbling to the point of almost falling on his face, just to keep from crashing into the kids walking in from outside of town. A lot of them are older, chatting amongst their own established groups; no one he knows, but definitely people he greets with a smile as they pass. The move around him with practised ease, Peacekeepers occasionally passing him as they guide the children to the Justice Building. Tooru stands on the tips of his toes in search of Nelly.

Finally, he spots the ever familiar mop of dark hair. Nelly locks eyes with him, a wide grin on her face, and soon enough she's sprinting over to him and crashing into Tooru's tired body with her arms flung open. They almost topple over to the ground, giggling at the ruckus their exchange causes. As soon as Nelly pulls away, her sweet smile and cheerful nature turns serious and cold.

"Who am I killing?" she says darkly. Tooru blinks at her in surprise, uncertain of what she means—until he smiles and a sudden pain surges through his jaw.

"No one," he assures her. Tooru laces his fingers through her own, guiding her along with the rest of the group. "Today's just been a bit unlucky."

Nelly pouts. But she doesn't press. "Did your dad get to chill out with you before you had to come?"

The change of subject is very welcome, and at least it's a topic he enjoys. "Yeah. Father-son bonding time, coupled with sage life advice from someone who's barely even middle-aged yet."

Nelly snorts out a laugh. "He walk you here?"

"No. I ran ahead—he covered for me so I could sneak out without Mom noticing." Tooru feels almost sheepish as he adds, "I climbed out the window and barricaded the door with a cabinet."

His arm is swung up high with Nelly's, a loud whoop coming from the girl. "Someone's hit their teen rebellion phase!" she hollers. A few eyes leap toward them, almost annoyed at how loud she's being. Once Nelly notices the attention she's gained, her face turns red and she rubs the back of her neck with her free hand. "Still though. Kinda sucks that your mom was being all… Y'know what I mean. But it's great your dad's being supportive and all—wish mine was like that. He doesn't even wanna let me move into the city when I'm older. Your dad's cool—"

"Nelly, calm down." Tooru gives her hand a reassuring squeeze. She's at the beginnings of a ramble, the nerves of attention getting to her. Nelly doesn't need to be nervous, though; they're together now, able to take on anything like the dynamic duo they are. "What's been happening with you since last year?"

It takes a while for her to fully open up. Her nerves slowly fade into excitement, and then Tooru's learning about her year at home. The things she's learned at school, the recent haircut she'd had thanks to her hair getting caught in a door—things that Tooru would've seen firsthand if they lived closer. He isn't too bothered by the distance, though. After all, seeing Nelly talk so animatedly about how she's been is almost relaxing for Tooru.

They don't separate until they absolutely _must_. Tooru gets called over to be identified, a slight pause as the official reads over his information. He'd only just recently been transferred to the boys' section, so it'll take a while for them to instinctively tell him which side to go to. The dark-haired man nods at him and tells him, "Third section from the rear," before calling on the next child.

He doesn't know a lot of the kids his age here. Nelly had been the only one he'd stood next to when they were twelve, and Donovan is a row ahead of him in this section—too far to chat idly until the escort comes onstage. Tooru shuffles on his feet and glances through the other kids for any sign of Nelly. He spots her after some searching, doing the same from her own line and waving gleefully when she sees him. Tooru giggles and waves back.

The loud screech of feedback from the microphone startles him. Tooru jumps in surprise, head snapping to the front as his hands clamp down at his sides. Everyone's quiet as they watch the escort tap the microphone experimentally, her assistants dragging the large Reaping Ball after her.

"Whoops," she says, and the wry smile on her face suggests something devious running through her head. She probably loved startling the teens, hardly apologetic for the grating sound. "Guess we should start the Reaping, though."

Eleven o'clock on the dot. She tucks some of her hair behind her ear and grins mischievously. "I'm Anari, the new escort for Five. You'll have to forgive me for not being more outstanding like _most_ escorts," she says pointedly to the crowd, "but unlike them I had a good two hours to prepare for this."

That's unfortunate, Tooru thinks. She's just as unprepared for these Games as they are.

"That reminds me—" Anari puts a hand over the microphone and looks over her shoulder at the mayor. Just barely, Tooru can hear her ask, "Who's the mentor? They here yet?" One of the assistants shakes their head while the other shrugs. Anari shrugs as well, a nonplussed expression on her face. "Oh well. Let's just pull a name and get this over with. I'm sure they'll arrive soon enough."

The proceedings seem to be moving faster than usual this year. Tooru watches with raised brows as Anari recites the Treaty of Treason, glancing down at her cue cards occasionally; before long, she's bowing to the crowd—who remain awkwardly silent through it all—and turning to the giant Reaping Ball behind her.

Anari's tall. Tall enough to successfully shove her hand deep into the Ball. Practically her entire forearm is swallowed by the slips of paper, an intense look of concentration on her face as she gazes up at the sky. After what feels like minutes of watching her swirl her arm around the papers, Anari yanks it out with a crumbled up slip clenched in her fist.

She smooths it out delicately as her assistants give her a thumbs-up. The paper crinkles loudly through the microphone and Anari tries to smile reassuringly at the teens who cringe.

"To—" she starts, only to stop and reread the name. "Toe—? Geoffrey, help me with this—"

One of her assistants scuttles to her side and peers down at the slip. He blinks once, twice, and then says into the microphone, "Tooru Ikeda."

He's not quite sure what hits him first: The embarrassment of being called "Toe", or the horror of being Reaped. Tooru's face practically burns as the kids he's shared classes with—the peers he wished would accept him like Nelly does—quickly inch away from him. The fourteens section bleeds into the thirteens and fifteens, leaving Tooru in the middle of an empty space.

The first thing he sees is Nelly with her hands covering her mouth, eyes blown wide. Their gazes lock as the Peacekeepers move to Tooru, as he calls out his location. He lowers his voice deliberately, but it still shakes as those footsteps get closer.

Nelly moves to raise her hand, inhaling deeply. Tooru barely manages to shake his head at her and plead, "Nel, don't," before he's yanked gracelessly from his section.

Tooru's used to being stared at by now. Everyone did when he came out, still do two years later. It gets easier to ignore. Now, though? Tooru feels so hyper aware of the countless eyes on him, watching him like a hawk as he walks to the stage. He feels smaller than he really is, the unease he'd felt earlier this morning practically drowning him.

His chest hurts. His face hurts. He can feel his heart throbbing through his whole body, threatening to burst out from his chest.

When Anari sees him, the first thing she does is draw attention to his bruising face. "Goodness, you must be a scrappy one," she laughs. She pats Tooru on the shoulder—God, he feels like a toddler next to her—and looks down at the crowd. "So there's no volunteers?"

No one says anything. No one can even look up at Tooru, practically ignoring his presence. Only Nelly meets his eye, fists clenched by her sides and her lips trembling. Anari rubs Tooru's shoulder almost reassuringly during the silence.

"I'm so sorry, sweetie," she says softly, keeping her face away from the microphone. "I wish I could do over the draw."

Tooru shakes violently then. He wants to cry, can feel the hiccups catching in his throat. But he doesn't. He just smiles as calmly as he can and whispers back, "It's not your fault."

He holds it in as she guides him into the Justice Building, no sign of a mentor in sight. He holds it in as they both wait for his parents, only to find that neither of them come. Nelly delivers a message: Katsu, despite having his only child Reaped, was expected back at Coriolanus 9 as soon as the Reaping ended; Cliona, stoic and with her arms crossed over her chest, had simply turned on her heel and walked back in the direction of their home. It hurts to listen to, but Tooru can't deny the possibility of it all. He hugs Nelly and tells her to take care of herself. None of his other friends come to say goodbye.

When Anari takes his hand and leads him onto the train, he finally meets his mentor. Adam stumbles through the doors and spills his tobacco stash all over the floor, cursing to himself. The dread in Tooru's stomach just grows.

It isn't until the train starts to move that it all spills over. Tooru's smile cracks, falls apart the moment his doubt surfaces. Anari sits next to him, pulls him into a strong hug. Adam merely smokes from his pipe, nonchalantly looking out the window at the retreating District 5. A small part of him, ever so familiar to his mother, demands he don't cry; a weaker, more understanding part begs for release.

So he lets go.

* * *

 **Okay quick summary of the first part in case the second section confused everyone who skipped: Tooru was being bullied and eventually bailed out of it by his friend, Donovan. Donovan has Tooru repay him by going to an old victor's house to clean their garden, which Donovan was supposed to do before he found Tooru. Before Tooru goes to do the job, he stops by his home and gets into an argument with his mother, Cliona, while tending to his injuries. He barricades himself in his bedroom and eventually leaves via the window to clean the victor's garden.**

 **Whew. That's District 5 done, sorry it took a while to get out! I feel like we're going in a pattern with the mentors' first impressions so far lmao - we had 1, 3, and 5 give off sinister, sneaky mentors, and 2 and 4 have shown off more unexpected/underdog-type mentors. District 6 is up next and I hope I'll be able to get it out without too much fuss! See you all there!**


	7. Heroic Impulse

**District 6! We're at District 6! I'm not sure if this chapter has as much going on in it as others, but it does give us a little bit of look at our host, Lola.**

 **This young man was made by** david12341 **, and I hope he came out like you envisioned him!**

* * *

 **06 - Heroic Impulse**

" _Welcome back! For those of you who just joined us, we've completed the Reapings for Districts One and Two_ — _and my goodness are they interesting Tributes!_

" _We started at nine in the luxury District. Unlike other years, they hadn't chosen a predetermined Tribute_ — _they did, however, appoint a past Quell victor as their mentor. I'm sure we all recognise the Knight family's name by now as being exemplary students shown off to the Capitol, though it looks to me like this generation's offering is a bit…_ underwhelming."

The crowd chuckles as a picture of an angry dark-haired boy is blown up on the screen behind Lola. There's three different angles showcasing the position he's in—held up high by a boy almost half a foot taller than him, the look of a rabid dog on his face—as the audio clip of his declaration plays.

" _Lovely, just lovely._ " Lola wipes at her eye as she breathes out a soft laugh. " _I can't say he's the worst of them, though. Have some of you_ seen _the new Academy students? I swear, one girl didn't even know what a strawberry looked like._ "

More laughter. Finn can't help the small giggle that escapes him, though he immediately feels bad once he realises that Lola's just insulted a poor child. Lola waits for the laughter to die down, looking over them with a proud expression. She walks just a few steps closer to the centre of the set, shielding the photos of Altan Knight.

" _In all seriousness, though, it's a very bold declaration. How many victors have we had from District One that got cocky before they even arrived at the Capitol? Probably a lot,_ " she adds with a small laugh, rolling her eyes. " _Irony is a funny thing, folks. These kids have a week to prepare for the Games, form alliances, establish a power dynamic_ — _you all know the process by now. To say he'll win before he even sees what he's up against… Well, it's just inviting an early death._ "

Finn tunes out the rest of her speech regarding the District 1 boy. He isn't really interested in the whole weigh in regarding first impressions, doesn't like hearing the odds for death based on the Reapings. He prefers looking at the outfits and hearing the stories from old victors and special guests, and seeing what sponsors like to look for in Tributes.

A hand smacks against his shoulder lightly. Finn startles, almost dropping the small screen as one of his earbuds are pulled away.

"Shove over, man," Noah sighs. He doesn't like listening to the Capitol programs as much as Finn does, but he can at least appreciate the hints to the previous five tributes so far. "How gaudy is she this year?"

"She's _stunning_ ," Finn corrects him, grinning. "She looks like a fancy bird."

Noah shoves the earbud into his ear, scooting closer to Finn to see the screen better. Lola's moved on from Altan Knight, now turning her audience's attention to District 2's Cetronia Livius. A gorgeous black girl appears on screen, delivering a speech while her escort tries to take the microphone away from her. There's no audio, and Finn can't help wondering if there'd been a malfunction at her Reaping.

" _Moving on, we have District Two's actual best. Ahead of her year, from what I've heard, and she was_ home-schooled _. Amazing, don't you all agree?_ " Lola smiles as the crowd claps. They've always loved the District 2 Tributes.

"Pretty," Noah observes. "Thought she was twenty at first glance, though. How tall do you think—"

"Dude, hush," Finn hisses. "I wanna see what she says."

"She's gonna insult her. It's Lola's schtick."

Schtick or no, Finn still enjoys the segment and the interesting Tributes the Capitol gets to see before the Games begin.

" _Whew. Look at her. If this were a beauty contest, she'd have won already!_ " Lola fans her face with a sheepish smile. Noah scrunches up his nose.

"I didn't know Lola Amos liked girls."

"She doesn't. It's all for show—in her interview last year she admitted that she's actually—"

"You're _such_ a fanboy, it's embarrassing."

Finn nudges Noah with a smirk. "Just because I know more about her than you do," he teases.

"That's the embarrassing part. Next you're going to tell me her dress size and who designs her clothes. _Don't_ even say it," he adds loudly as Finn opens his mouth to answer both questions. It's entry-level knowledge to the world of Lola Amos: Size 6, her entire wardrobe designed by the biggest tailor to come from District 8—Jurich Velour. But he won't say anything, seeing the pleading look in Noah's eye at the idea of the lecture.

They turn their attentions back to Lola, who's spilling the beans on what went down at Cetronia's Reaping. Audio had been cut due to a "scandalous opinion," as Lola had put it, and Cetronia had left District 2 with less applause than anyone in the history of District 2 Reapings. Finn hisses sympathetically. He's been tuning into the network for the past few years, a guilty pleasure that only Noah and Lux know about, and no one has been seen off as poorly as Cetronia was.

"Think she'll get sponsors?" Finn asks absently. Noah snorts.

"Who cares?" He taps the screen. The menu pops up, a list of channels available to select from. Noah absently taps the notoriously cheesy soap opera channel, removing the earbud once it flicks over. "You're gonna be seeing it all tomorrow. Besides, I thought you weren't big on those Career type kids. 'They're a bunch of bullies! How can anyone be so mean?' You literally said that all throughout last year's Games."

Finn scrunches up his nose and switches off the screen. He tucks it into his backpack, hazardously stuffing the earplugs after it, and slings the bag over his shoulder. "She seems different," Finn argues.

"She seems _hot_ ," Noah corrects him. Finn rolls his eyes and lightly punches the other boy on the shoulder. Trust Noah to immediately jump to the "Finn loves a pretty face" joke.

The bell to the school rings, three dull tones that signal the early end of the day. Children start to pour out from their assembly, homework tucked under their arms as they scuttle through the doors. Finn and Noah peek through the crowd of kids, waiting for Lux to emerge. They hear her before they see her, the twelve-year-old letting out a screech at the sight of her step-brother and his friend coming to meet her.

Lux crashes into Finn with the speed of a cannonball, knocking him to the ground with a loud wheeze. "You're here, you're here, you're here!" she chants at an impossible speed. Lux's bright blue eyes are full of excitement and glee, quite the opposite from what most kids her age show on a day like this.

"It's not a proper downtime without our resident gremlin," Finn teases. He ruffles her hair, effectively leaving it sticking out in all directions. Lux swats at him and jumps back to her feet.

As Finn gets up, Noah takes Lux's backpack and tucks her homework into an empty section. "Still think it's dumb that you had to come for an _assembly_ and 'just in case you don't get Reaped' homework," he mutters. Lux nods in agreement, crossing her arms over her chest.

"No one even got an award for attendance or outstanding work," she complains. "It was all boring, boring, boring."

"Boring's the worst."

"Boring's _blech_!"

Finn pats the back of his pants in an attempt to get the dirt off of him. "Did I suddenly become the caretaker of two six-year-olds?"

They ignore his quip, immediately getting straight to what they deem business. The plan for today is to get an early lunch—brunch, if one felt so inclined to call it—before heading straight to the Reapings, and then after that… Well, after that the day will still be young. Anything could be on the table, now that their little trio is complete.

The diner they head to is a rather fancy one. It isn't very often than Noah and Finn can afford something for the two of them, but today is a special day. Some would see it as grim to celebrate Lux's first day in the annual lottery, as they like to call it, but to them it's the start of her own journey. Surviving that first Reaping brings so much relief, and they want Lux to feel as safe as they did when they were her age. The money they'd pooled together over the past few months, doing odd jobs and saving their allowances, is more than enough to afford whatever Lux wants.

They walk in a line, Noah taking the lead and bragging about his most recent activities. Lux is behind him, listening attentively and commenting how cool Noah is. Finn takes the rear, a small smile on his face as he listens to the exchange. Every now and then someone their age passes them by, off to relax before the Reaping like they are, but for the majority of the trip Finn sees bare streets. It's the one day off most people get here—unless, of course, they drive the trains that go to and from the Capitol—and it's no surprise that they'd all be indoors or spending time with their families. When Finn was younger, it was all he and Lux wanted to do; now, though, they don't feel as scared.

They cross onto Skipper Street, one of the longest streets in District 6 by far. A lot of services are available here, but just before the numerous workstations and mechanics stores begin is the diner Noah and Finn have claimed as their own. Finn digs around in his pocket for the money he'd brought with him.

Just as he pulls it out and starts to count, his gaze drifts. He no longer focuses on Lux and Noah as they walk leisurely ahead, nor does he focus on his grip on the money. Finn's eyes travel onwards, across the street and into the dimly lit alley separating a car repairman's shop and the small sandwich bar most workers frequent.

Dressed in rags and hair mangled to the point where Finn can't even tell if they're a woman or if they've just been sitting there for a very _long_ time. He can see large red welts on yellowing skin, mostly around the forearms—signs of morphling addiction, which has no doubt left them there today.

Poor thing. They must be in so much pain.

"Finn," Noah calls. His tone is short and insistent, like he knows what Finn's thinking. Finn snaps to attention and looks over at his friend. Lux stares at him as well, curiously following his gaze.

"Who's that?" Lux asks.

Noah's quick to come up with a clean version of the poor person's story. "They're just resting while they wait for their sandwich," he tells her.

Lux grins. "Wonder what kind they got," she says. "Do you think they like ham?"

"Everyone likes ham," Noah scoffs. "Unless they don't like meat in general." He starts to guide Lux back in the direction of the diner, an impatient nod to Finn that demands the boy hurry up.

Finn waves halfheartedly. "I'll catch up," he calls. "Just wanna check and see what kind of sandwich they got."

" _Finn_ ," Noah hisses. Before he can say much else, Fin is already crossing the street and jogging in the direction of the beggar. He hears Noah sigh tiredly as he leads Lux into the diner.

The beggar doesn't look up at him when he approaches, almost as though stuck in their own little world. Finn does his best to look welcoming and friendly, hands tucked leisurely into his pockets and a warm smile on his face. He crouches down in front of them, looking for any signs of life, as he says, "Hey, there."

Ever so slowly they lift their head. Tired brown eyes look up at Finn, dimly register his presence. "I'm Finn," he says. "What's your name?"

The beggar looks him up and down. It's a slow movement; Finn can't see how they've survived this long with morphling withdrawals and the constant temptation of food beside them.

After what feels like an eternity, he gets a reply. A wheezing, husky voice that sounds drier than a desert, begging, " _Please_ …"

Finn frowns, the pity practically open for all to see on his face. "When was your last hit?" he asks quietly. The man running the sandwich stall loudly slams his knife into a block of cheese. Finn jumps, surprised, as he meets the man's gaze and discovers that their conversation is being listened to.

"She ran out about four days ago. Took so much she couldn't stand for two days," he says gruffly. "Damn thing won't eat until she has that crap offered to her."

Finn's hand comes up to cover his mouth, horror in his voice. "She'll be in too much pain to eat," he mutters. The sandwich maker merely huffs.

"There are worse things," he dismisses.

All the man gets in reply in a frown and a glare. The fact that he won't help relieve her pain is horrible. Finn turns back to her, finds her staring dreamily at the ground in front of her. Who knows when he'd get a chance to help her again? The question flits through his mind as he pulls some of his money out and counts a small enough amount to leave Lux with something to buy with; the woman just watches the ground with a blank look on her face, almost doesn't even notice him slide the money into her hand and curl her fingers around it.

When she looks up at him, he quickly tells her, "It probably won't get you a lot, but it'll help with the pain."

She stares at him for a moment. Looks down at the money. With a speed Finn wouldn't have assumed her capable of, she shoves him away from her and rolls to her side; the further she makes it into the alley, the closer she gets to standing on her own two feet. She hobbles down, getting further and further away from Finn.

"Barb," she howls harshly. She gets no answer. " _Barb_."

Finn watches in bewilderment. His arm hurts a little, having softened his tumble, and his shoe is partially off of his foot. The woman is almost gone from his sight when he stands up again, but he can still hear her howling, " _Barb_."

The sandwich maker sets down his knife, an almost curious look on his face. Finn won't look him in the eye, too ashamed by how she'd reacted to his help.

"How on earth did you envision that ending, boy?" he asks. Finn doesn't answer him. "Think she'd hug you, all teary-eyed as she thanked you endlessly? Think she'd look at me and ask for a _sandwich_?"

"I don't know," Finn sighs. He pats the dust off of his pants. "I just wanted to help."

"Word of advice: Morphling addicts like her don't need heroes. You're better off using your 'help' on someone who wants it."

Finn frowns at him childishly. "You're a very cynical man."

The sandwich maker barely hesitates with his reply. "And you're a very dimwitted boy."

He doesn't have an argument for that. Not that Finn likes to argue, anyway. He looks at the man with a dejected pout, almost as though trying to convey without words how hurtful the man sounds. The man simply scoffs at him.

"Go back to your friends, kid," he demands. "You've done your so-called 'civil duty'."

A feeling of dread makes itself comfortable in Finn's stomach. It remains as he walks across the street, festers as he opens the door to the diner. Even the sight of Lux and Noah downing bottles of juice doesn't help him to ignore the uneasy feeling. As Finn sits down at the table with them, dropping his bag to the floor, he feels almost as though he's ready to go back to bed.

His mind wanders a bit. A small glass bottle of juice is pushed to him—Noah says something about guava being the "new flavour rage" this year—and Finn merely toys with the lid as he thinks about the woman. He doesn't see what he's done wrong in the sandwich maker's eyes, though he supposes even those who want nothing to do with morphling won't even know the terror of going cold turkey. People have died from the withdrawals—District 6 knows it better than anyone else, even the Capitol—and weaning off of it is the only effective way to come clean.

The woman, though… He can't help wondering if Barb is the name of her dealer. If Barb has access to morphling where she does not. He must've given her _enough_ for even a small amount of the stuff, because why else would she stagger about, calling for Barb like a child that's lost their mother? Finn wonders how long she's been in such a state, how long Barb's known about her addiction; part of him wonders if he truly did right by the woman by helping her ease the pain.

"What kind of sandwich did she get?"

Finn startles. He blinks and looks to Lux with wide eyes, spotting a bright blue pair staring back at him. It takes a moment for the question to process properly, for him to remember what he'd told her before he'd gone after the woman.

"She, uh," he starts. "She didn't."

Lux blinks in surprise. "Didn't buy a sandwich?"

"No—the owner said she was just resting there for a bit."

It's not a lie. Then again, it's not the truth. If Lux doesn't ask more on the subject, Finn might just be able to hold his tongue for once. He's terrible with secrets, no matter how hard he tries not to blurt them out to the wrong people.

Lord, Noah's been right about watching Lola all the time: He's starting to become an accidental gossip.

"We got some eggs and bacon," Noah announces loudly. Adept as ever at changing the subject, subtle or no. "Said they got a crate from Ten this morning, 'round five. _We_ are the first ones that'll be sampling the delectable hogs."

"Groovy." Finn grins toothily. "Let's hope it tastes as delectable as they claim."

A loud sizzle sounds from the kitchen. Within moments of it hitting their ears, the scent of fat and meat being cooked in oil reaches their noses.

Noah sinks into his chair and downs the rest of his guava juice. "Something tells me it will be," he says, satisfied by the smell alone.

Finn pops open the cap on his bottle. The juice smells sickly sweet, but oddly enough it leaves an almost bitter taste in his mouth. He's never been one for sweet things, his sweet tooth being practically nonexistent, but this is odd even by his standards. He squints at the label, then at Noah.

"Trippy, huh?" Noah chuckles. "It's really guava—they just did _something_ to it to make it not-guava."

A small squeak comes from Lux. She finishes sipping her juice, waving her arms about wildly. Lux motions for Finn's bag, eyes wide and excited.

"Isn't District Three doing their Reaping now?" She practically yanks the tablet out of his hands as soon as he pulls it from his bag. Finn can't help laughing at the sight of her energy. "After them should be Four—don't you wanna see who gets Reaped?"

Finn jumps up out of his seat with a loud gasp. "I almost forgot!" he yelps. Noah rolls his eyes dramatically, spinning his bottle on the table lazily. Lux just giggles at the two boys, tapping away at the screen and selecting the channel airing the live coverage of the Reapings.

Ever since he could remember, Finn's always _adored_ District 4. It wasn't the people or the rumours of extravagant food that got him excited over the place—no, it was the _water_. His near-unnatural love of water paired with a strong desire to travel to the nearest beach brings questions to people's lips. "Are you sure you were born here? There's nothing special about travelling to a bunch of water. C'mon, it's not really that great, is it?" He'll always simply smile and nod, tell them about his dream and show them pictures he has of the beaches in magazines.

District 4's Reapings are the closest Finn's gotten so far to seeing the ocean himself. The way the sun reflects off of the waves, the various jewellery made from fish bones and corals; it's heaven compared to the District he calls home, where everyone is cynical and a realist, so tired of transportation that they refuse to leave the place even _once_ in their lifetimes.

He moves closer to Lux's chair and leans over her shoulder once the sound of Lola's voice starts to play out of the small speaker. She's talking about her recent interview with District 3's escort, bragging about their choice in mentor for this year. A "controversial" choice, given the reputations of most victors from the District—the mentor apparently won out of nowhere, showing a strength other than technological knowledge in the final eight.

Finn just barely sees the escort move onstage before the door to the diner opens. He catches sight of Iris's four eyes just as someone clears their throat behind him. Finn looks over his shoulder with wide eyes as District 3's mayor begins to read out the Treaty of Treason. He doesn't expect to see a five-nothing woman with half of her face swallowed up by sunglasses, cherry lips tugged in a frown—yet here he is, looking down at her with a bewildered expression.

He assumes that from her greying hair, she's older than thirty. The wrinkles peeking out from under her sunglasses and sticking to the corners of her mouth support this. Finn wipes the confusion off of his face as soon as possible, wanting to be respectful in addressing the woman.

"Can I help you with anything?" he asks politely. The woman simply tilts her head, her frown making an annoyed twitch. Finn barely gets to ask again if she needs help before she grasps him tightly by the arm. It's a vice-like grip, her fingers digging in so painfully that Finn starts to worry he'll bleed.

The woman drags him to the door. She pulls him outside and away from prying eyes, making sure to look up and down the empty street as he practically goes limp in her grip. He doesn't want to pull his arm back, scared she'll trip and fall.

Once she throws him up against the wall of the diner, though, all thoughts of accidentally harming her come to a startled halt. Finn's a tall boy—five-eight without shoes—and she just lifts him by the collar of his teal button-up like he's nothing to her. His toes scuff the ground beneath him. From this angle, he can see one milky, clouded eye and one dazzling green eye.

"You the one who gave Astrid the money?"

"A—" Finn stares down at her in horror. "Astrid?"

"Morphling addict," she snaps. "Long hair, sounds like shit when she talks."

The addict at the sandwich stall! Finn blinks, finally able to put a name to the weak face. The recognition in his eyes only serves to make the woman more annoyed. She presses him harder against the wall.

"Who gave you the _right_ ," the woman snarls, "to decide what's best for her recovery?"

"I—I—" Finn's hands shake as he looks down at her with newfound horror. She's gone from a small, middle-aged woman to a powerful _beast_ within the span of milliseconds. He doesn't know how she found out about him giving Astrid money—the sandwich maker? Astrid herself?—but all he knows right now is that he's in just enough trouble for Noah to yell at his generosity. "I'm sor—"

She pulls him off the wall. In one swift movement, he's flung further into the alley. Finn knocks into a bin, toppling it over and landing on top of a half-eaten muffin. He doesn't even complain as it sticks to his shirt, but he does let out a disgusted whimper when some of it clings to his arm.

"'Sorry' doesn't fix her habit!" the woman bellows. He actually flinches back at the shrillness of her voice, at the pure _rage_ mixed into it. "'Sorry' doesn't make her learn!"

He doesn't know what overcomes him—Finn's never been a confrontational person, not unless someone else is being attacked—but the way she talks about Astrid "learning" from her withdrawals triggers something in him. If it had been Lux in the same situation, he'd _beg_ on her behalf for help.

Finn clenches his fists tightly, so much that they hurt as he yells back, "Why are you people so heartless toward her?"

The woman freezes, if only for a second, before she scowls down at him. His question had caught her off guard—but also angered her further. "Heartless?" she scoffs. "I'm _heartless_? I'm the one who wants her clean the _most_ in our Goddamn family!"

"You're killing her, is what you're doing!" Finn glares up at her. Tears are burning in the backs of his eyes—he hates speaking so harshly, feels terrible when he mimics her snarls. It feels so _unnatural_. "Dropping the drug suddenly can kill you—I was trying to make sure she could just get enough for the pain to stop!"

They glare at each other. Silent seconds pass, giving Finn time to calm himself down and stop his resolve from wavering. The woman doesn't move an inch, her stance half-prepared to tackle him if he gets up again. The conversation is far from over; Finn wishes she'd just accept his apology.

She makes the first move. Finn flinches as she raises her hand. It rises to her face, fingers the rims of her sunglasses. Silently, the woman raises the sunglasses until they rest on her scalp. Two mismatched eyes stare down at Finn with disdain—but something else is there. He just can't place it in the shadows of the alley.

"There are worse things," she mutters.

He's speechless. Mouth opening and closing frantically, Finn tries to find an argument. But like with the sandwich maker, the horror he feels at the dismissal is too much to think rationally through.

The woman takes advantage of his silence, continuing, "Rivet told me you were with two other kids—one of them quite younger than you. Tell me, boy: Are you close?"

Finn's first thought is that she's referring to Lux, and he doesn't even stop to think about whether she's threatening Noah and Lux or not. He just blurts out, "M—My sister and my best friend. We're always together."

"Cute," she says dully. "I want you to imagine something for me. Imagine one day, while living so comfortably for so long, that sister of yours just says out of the blue, 'I can't bare to look at you as human anymore.' How would you feel?"

The scenario runs through his head. It's painful and makes his chest hurt, imagining Lux's loving, comforting voice saying such a thing. He purses his lips and glares at her feet, refusing to meet her eye.

"Yeah." It comes out like a dull sigh, like all of her anger has melted away into a familiar tone of resignation. "It's like a part of you dies. Now take that feeling, and add the knowledge that your sister can't look you in the eye without being so doped up on morphling—that _you_ have to pay for—to the point of barely being able to function like a _toddler_. How does _that_ feel now?"

He doesn't want to imagine it. Finn bites his lip harshly, peeling at the skin and leaving it with a raw feeling. "I'm sorry," he croaks. The woman stares down at him, stern and frowning. "I didn't know—"

"No one bothers to," she growls. "For the last twenty years I've done everything to make sure Astrid can be comfortable around me, that she can _tolerate_ me. When she disappeared this week, I felt relief. I didn't have to spoon feed my little sister a sedative just so I could have a one-sided conversation with her at dinner—I actually _begged_ for her to be dead.

"And then she shows up at our house, _your_ money in her hands. 'Barb,' she told me, 'I can be with you again.'"

Barb. Astrid had been calling for Barb—for this woman right in front of him. Not a drug dealer, not some sketchy person selling morphling to hapless people. Her own _sister_ , who'd done it at first out of goodwill. But the way she's describing Astrid's state… It's almost like years of regret are flooding into the alley, pooling around himself and Barb.

"The fact that she thinks she can't even speak to me without the stuff breaks my heart." Barb wipes at her clouded eye. She sniffs quietly, but she looks less likely to cry than Finn is right now. "And that you supported it? I was _insulted_. You didn't ease my sister's pain—you just gave her the means to the end that kills what little pieces of her are left. You're letting her suffer _more_."

Barb inhales sharply. She glares at Finn as she lowers her sunglasses again. Behind her, he can see people starting to emerge from their houses to get a start in the day.

Finn really wants to crawl to her feet and apologise until he loses his voice. He hadn't wanted to cause so much pain in the small act of kindness. If he and Lux were in a similar position to Barb and Astrid, he wouldn't be able to live with the knowledge of how _broken_ their family would be in such a scenario.

But he can't find his voice. He tries to say something, only for a pitiful wheeze to escape. Barb huffs down at him.

"Enjoy your time with your sister while you have it," she says stiffly. "And stop try'na be a damn hero. District Six doesn't need one—it needs survivors."

She turns on her heel and sprints out of the alley. Within the blink of an eye, she's across the street and running in the direction Astrid had, passing the sandwich maker with a curt wave. Through the thin rows of people heading out for breakfast, he can see the sandwich maker nod to him knowingly.

Barb mentioned a person called Rivet. Finn can't shake the feeling that the very man who'd told him the same thing—that District 6 doesn't need heroes—may be Rivet.

When he enters the diner once again, muffin leftovers cleaned from his shirt and arm, a plate of eggs and bacon is waiting for him alongside Lux and Noah.

* * *

District 4 turned out to have a volunteer this year, though not from their Academy. She'd apparently volunteered for a younger boy who'd been Reaped, and Noah had reported that her family owns a rather successful seafood business.

"Lola mentioned her old man by name," Noah says as they get in line. It'll be a long while before they get to the official's table, the line spanning multiple streets already. "It's the same guy who owns the company we get our products from. Didn't expect her to be in the Games, honestly."

"What was she like?" Finn's eyes practically shine as he tries to imagine the District 4 girl.

"Kinda pretty. Had the kinda build you see on strong swimmers in movies. Nice rack," he adds as an afterthought.

Finn kicks Noah's heel. Noah punches his shoulder in retaliation.

"I meant the kind of vibe she gave off," Finn sighs. "Was she like, a really confident Career girl? Timid?"

"Normally I'd lecture you on how all Careers are the same…" Noah nods his head to either side thoughtfully. "I dunno. She looked really out of it when she walked onstage. Like she wasn't all there. Never left the mentor's side, either."

Finn looks at him with surprise. He'd never thought the day would come when Noah sounded uncertain of a Career and their abilities.

"She just looked like she regretted volunteering the moment she looked at the cameras," he decides. "You had to see it."

"I'll take your word for it." They shuffle forward as the line moves on.

After what feels like a few minutes of silence between them, Noah says softly, "Do you think one of us might end up going this year?"

Finn blinks at him. "Why do you ask?"

"Three got me thinking," he says idly. "You missed it but the girl who got Reaped was only fourteen. The girl next to her was yelling something about there being a less than one percent chance of them being Reaped. What if we're unlucky like that?"

"We don't take tesserae," Finn reassures him. He pats Noah on the shoulder softly. "This place may not be ideal, but we're not in the most unfortunate situations."

Noah chews at his lip as a dark look passes over him. An uneasy feeling settles in Finn's stomach. "Noah?"

"My family had to take it this year," he admits. "I lied to them about how much money I had leftover for food—I wanted to make sure we had enough for Lux today. So we took it."

"Why—"

"Dude, come on. You two are like family to me." He nudges Finn with his elbow. "Can't let Lux be scared on her first day."

It's hard to smile gratefully at him. Even if the odds are lower this year, Noah and Finn still have one more year in the Reaping Balls. If Noah gets Reaped, Finn can't help feeling like it'll be his fault.

Noah notices his hesitation, crosses his arms in front of his chest. "Here I thought _I_ was the worrywort," he teases.

"We really didn't have to go all out today," Finn mutters.

"Think about it like this: If one of us winds up leaving, we'll have had one hell of a meal before being sent off." Noah winks. And then just like that, he looks as concerned as Finn feels. "You ever wonder how we'd do, though? Like if we did go?"

"You're a spitfire, if I ever saw one," Finn laughs. The line moves further a few feet. "You'd probably make a really good impression with the Gamemakers in training."

"Think I'd get a good score?"

"Seven."

"Dude. That's average as hell."

Finn smirks at him. "What about me? Think I'd do any better?"

Noah lets out a loud laugh. The kids in their line look over their shoulders at him. "You can't even hold a knife to butter your bread properly!" Noah guffaws. "Unless they like sweet talkers, you'd be _lucky_ to get a six for how fit you are."

They're a little closer to the official's desk. As lighthearted as they try to make this conversation feel, a lingering awkwardness remains. Finn and Noah have never liked the Hunger Games much—he'd even go so far as to say it's the one thing he hates due to all the killing that's required of it. As much as they can try to joke about how they'd do and how the strict Gamemakers would rank them, it's still painful to think that either of them won't be free of the danger for another year.

For all the times Finn watches Lola examine the Tributes, he hopes to see some shred of strength left in each child. Some form of hope that they'll come back home, that Lola won't slander them too much and sabotage their sponsorship chances. He likes Capitol fashion and soap operas, but he hates that the most extravagant of them all come out during the Hunger Games.

Too many kids have died over the past hundred years. He hopes just a little bit that maybe this year will be the last. A punishment can only go on for so long.

It's close to eleven twenty when Finn and Noah reach the official. Noah goes first, letting out a loud groan when the prick pierces his finger. He's directed towards the front of the town square, and then it's Finn's turn. The official looks him up and down once as Finn silently sits through the blood sampling. He looks down at the screen and reads out, "Finnegan Styx?"

Finn nods. "Second row from the front, left side," the official tells him.

He winds up a short distance away from Noah, and Lux is practically out of sight. Finn rocks back and forth on his feet; after a good three minutes of that, he begins to loudly tap his feet against the concrete. Boys either side of him glare at him, but Finn takes no notice. Unlike some, he just can't sit entirely still.

It takes a while for Ambert the escort to arrive, and it takes Fiin a moment to actually process what she looks like this year. At first he thinks she's some other official here to observe, but even through the layers of hideously botched yellow skin dye he can tell it's her. Her hair's been dyed bright orange, her dress made from shimmering orange material. Even the hat she wears has orange slices decorating it. He can't help wondering if she has a particular theme she wants to follow that didn't quite fall through this year.

She clears her throat daintily and leans uncomfortably close to the microphone. What he thinks is supposed to be, "Good morning everyone," comes out as a garbed mess of lips smacking together through the speakers.

It's the usual deal: Ambert tries to promote the Capitol and praise the Games, everyone ignores her and has a small conversation of their own. Treaty of Treason, awkward clapping, and a misplaced "welcome" to the twelve year olds whose names will be in the Reaping Balls for the next six years. It is, quite frankly, a little uncomfortable for Finn.

A boy beside him yawns loudly. Finn chuckles at little before clearing his throat.

"We'll now proceed to the drawings!" Ambert announces. With a flourish of her hands, she claps for her assistants to drag the Reaping Ball over to her. They do so reluctantly, exasperated expressions on their faces. It drops with a loud clunk beside her. Finn can see an orange slice fall from her hat and into the Reaping Ball.

Ambert hurriedly tries to pull it out, only for a slip of paper to stick to the slice and drop to the floor of the stage as she shakes it loose. The mayor clears his throat, and Finn swears he can hear him say, "That must be counted as a draw, Ms. Viva."

Ambert flushes—her face turns an ugly shade of orange as the blood rushes to her face. Finn cringes at the sight.

"Dear me," Ambert says innocently. "I've gone and made a fool of myself. Oh well! We'll see who the lucky Tribute this year will be!"

As she pops open the paper, staining her fingers with the sticky juice left from the orange slice, a girl from the front of the eighteens group yells out to her. "Did you even introduce the mentor?" she hollers. The other girls around her laugh, and Finn can hear a few chuckles from the boys.

Ambert gives her a sickly sweet smile. "I'll have you know, _sweetie_ ," she says in a strained voice, "that the mentor didn't want to appear today. So zip your lips and let _me_ do my job. Okay?"

More laughter. Finn can't help feeling bad for the woman, though he will admit he's a little curious to see who they chose for the Quell. Not a lot of District 6's victors are of sound mind, what with how many of them take morphling to cope with their own Games.

"Now," Ambert breathes. "Our lucky tribute is… Oh my, what a lovely name! Is there a Lux Styx in the crowd?"

The ugliest sound known to man escapes Finn's throat.

When Lux comes out of the crowd of twelve year olds lining the back, she looks more disappointed than upset. Less like she just broke her knee and can't play her favourite sport anymore, and more like she dropped some loose change into a gutter. Finn, on the other hand, isn't coping as well.

He knocks over about four other boys as he rushes to the ropes sectioning them off. He reaches for Lux as she passes, calling her name. Distantly, he can hear Noah calling out to him and Lux, and then eventually joining Finn at the ropes to reach out to Lux. The Peacekeepers knock them back, causing Noah to stumble and fall on his behind. Lux simply calls out, "Are you okay, Noah?"

"God," Noah groans back.

She's getting closer and closer to the stage, now shaking as the weight of the situation lands on her. Finn can't even contain the loud, heavy breaths that crawl out of him.

He's going to lose Lux. In some messed up twist of fate, Finn is about to lose Lux in a similar fashion to how Barb lost Astrid. He's watching her wither away, and then he'll see the last remaining pieces of Lux die before his eyes on TV.

He's not sure what happens as the thought races through his mind, but he's aware of a coarse pain in his throat when he falls back into reality. Seconds, maybe even minutes, must have passed. But all eyes are on him now. Finn looks left and right frantically, at Lux's still form onstage next to Ambert. Dimly, he can feel tears running down his cheeks.

With a nervous smile, Ambert says, "It looks like we have a volunteer, then."

When the Peacekeepers come to his side, they don't push him back in line. Finn looks in confusion down at Noah, but all he gets in return is a mixture of horror, fear, and distraught from Noah's expression. He still can't figure out what's happened. Who volunteered?

Lux is taken offstage as Finn is guided up. Up close, he can smell the sick citrus scent from Ambert's hat. She holds the microphone out to him and asks, "What's your name, young man?"

Finn blinks, still trying to find his bearings. He feels almost like an outsider watching himself from a distance. "F—Finn. Finnegan Styx. Finn Styx," he babbles. Ambert looks down at him with her mouth forming a perfect O shape.

"Are you related to young Lux, Finn?"

"My…" He feels lightheaded. "My sister…"

"Oh, how sweet! We don't get volunteers often here—" His chest hurts. "—but I'm sure your heroic act will be appreciated." His fingers keep trembling, but he's not cold. "Give it up for Finnegan Styx, everyone!" Was it always this hard to breathe? "Mr. Styx? Mr—" Two Amberts enter his field of vision. Finn feels almost weightless as he looks blankly up at them. "Mr— Heather, get the smelling salts—"

He's unconscious before he even hits the stage floor.

* * *

 **There he goes! Not gonna lie, I couldn't stop making jokes to myself about how Barbara was a cryptid throughout this whole chapter pfft. That means that yes, the very Barb who threw Finn onto a half-eaten muffin was the Barbara Thisbe he's set to train under hehehe**

 **This chapter also marks the first use of a Quell Question! I'll be counting up all the reviews left as points, and five extra points will be added for every Quell Question answered - so a total of six points that you can use for later sponsorship! They'll be starting fairly standard, since we've only met 6/24 Tributes.**

 **QQ #1:** What was your first impression of Lola Amos, now that we've seen how she runs her show?

 **With all that done, we're moving on to District 7! I'll see you all there soon!**


	8. Brother, Sister

**[EDIT 8/3/17 - The end of the chapter/goodbyes has been fixed somewhat, hopefully making the end feel less rushed]**

 **Hoo boy District 7. Heads up, this character was created by me!**

 **At the time I opened Ad Mortem, I had no idea how many submissions I'd even get and decided I'd need at least one character of my own to keep from being short in a few Districts - any others I needed to include would've been automatic bloodbaths so the focus could stay on everyone else's characters. I was very fortunate to be invited to the SYOT Forum by Celtic, and I'm so thankful to everyone who helped me fill those spots with their wonderful characters. Y'all rock!**

* * *

 **07 - Brother, Sister**

She spends more time than necessary in the shower this morning.

It really was a thing she should've expected. It only happened every twenty-five years, and the chances of one falling within Ham's years as a potential Tribute were pretty high to begin with. The chances of _anyone_ having to sit through the Reapings for a Quell are pretty high. It should come as no surprise that she's about to sit through one.

Ham scrubs at her hair in frustration. Her scalp burns, the shampoo more than likely bubbling around her temples. Today's going to be a relief once it's over, she thinks. She won't even bother watching the live showing of the Quell once it begins. As much as she loves the fact that Capitol kids are going to die this year too, Ham's just too tired to bother—too tired! At _eighteen_!

She rinses the shampoo and begins to scrub in her conditioner just as the door to the bathroom flies open. Ham half-expects it to be Ashley or her dad—they always complain that she takes too long—but to her surprise it's Willow. Hair sticking out in all directions as she peeks around the shower curtain, Ham can't help but feel a little awkward as she looks the woman up and down.

Willow's crouched at the seat of the toilet, long hair held back by one hand as the other supports her slightly protruding belly. The baggy clothes and bare feet don't suit Willow one bit, and Ham isn't sure how to tell her sister-in-law this without offending the woman.

As Ham opens her mouth to ask how the woman is feeling, Willow dry heaves into the toilet loudly. Ham is quick to cover her mouth and hide behind the curtain again. She doesn't want to see last night's dinner come out of someone else right now. Not while she's in the middle of washing her hair. It doesn't take long for Ewan—Ham's brother and the lucky husband of the sick woman at the toilet—to come into the bathroom and comfort his wife, deliberately ignoring Ham as she hurries to finish her shower. She doesn't even bother to grab an extra towel for her hair as she rushes out from behind the curtain and covers herself with the one already hanging on the door handle.

The Hamilton residence has never been a bustling one. Despite the active status of Lennox—the Hamilton head; the man at the stand, as Ham calls him—not a lot of things go on around the place. Willow's pregnancy has been the biggest thing to happen in the family since, well, Ewan and Willow's _wedding_. Unlike other families in their area filled to the brim with children, the Hamilton house is quiet. Solemn, almost.

Ham chews her lip nervously as she runs at full speed for her room. It's the farthest away, the smallest room in the house, which makes it difficult to go unnoticed by anyone else awake at the moment. She hears the gruff call of her name from downstairs, almost as though someone is looking up and waiting for her to backtrack to the top step obediently. It isn't like Ham has a choice if she does or not—when someone calls out your name in the Hamilton house, you _respond_.

She finds her father standing at the bottom step, a hand hovering over the rail of the staircase. There's a hesitant look in his eye, his brows furrowed ever so slightly.

"What's up?" she asks, and she has to ignore all of the water dripping onto the floor from her arms. If Ewan hadn't been in the bathroom, she would've had some time to dry herself off.

Lennox Hamilton is not usually a man who looks concerned. He's usually the one who looks most in control, who looks ready to take action at the drop of a hat with an impromptu plan. There's only one day a year that Lennox Hamilton ever looks worried, and Ham supposes it's no surprise that today would be that day—the day of the 100th Hunger Games' Reapings. He inhales deeply, burly chest expanding visibly, before he starts to ascend the stairs with a soft gaze.

"Does your mother's dress still fit you?" he asks. Ham stares at him for a moment, blinking as the gears whir slowly in her mind, before she finally figures out just which dress he'd meant.

Yvonne's old Reaping dress. "I don't think so?" she says slowly. It's been a year since she'd last worn it, but it had been tight in some areas and too short in others. Ham had been surprised, since Yvonne had been much taller as a teen than Ham is now. She'd hoped the dress would last a while. "Want me to check?"

Lennox shakes a hand at her. "No, no, it's fine. I have something else in mind. Dry off and meet me at the shed, okay?"

He doesn't leave her time to respond, making his way past the girl and heading in the direction of the bathroom. Willow and Ewan still haven't emerged, leaving Ham to wonder if the woman has food poisoning instead of morning sickness. Ham stares after him, watches as the door is left ajar after Lennox asks about Willow.

She changes into some of her work clothes, not wanting to doll herself up for the Reaping quite yet. It's only nine, plenty of time before she needs to get herself ready and actually walk to the town square. As soon as her hair is damp enough to leave without catching a cold, Ham exits her room and heads back in the direction of the bathroom. From the sounds of things, Willow and Ewan aren't in there anymore. Part of Ham is relieved, while another worries just a little over how violently Willow had been retching.

True to her expectations, Lennox is no longer in the bathroom either. He's already headed off to the shed, never one to waste time. Ham hums softly to herself as she backtracks to the stairs once more.

Lining the halls of their wood house are countless photos, all of them from different periods of time. It always feels so nostalgic walking past them, glancing at the memories within them. Ham's first day of school, standing proudly next to her older brothers. Willow and Ewan's wedding, capturing Willow's gorgeous dress before she'd dirtied it with sawdust and dirt. Lennox and Yvonne posing with their four children, all sitting in matching sweaters and looking every bit the awkward family they were.

Ham pauses towards the bottom stop, eyes glued to the wall as something feels amiss. There's normally more photos along here, a picture of Ashley and Fern sitting between the baby pictures of both Ham and Ewan. Instead, though, she sees only an empty space and the vague outline of dust from where it had been sitting.

She inhales deeply. Ashley must be awake. The picture only ever goes missing when he comes out of his room during the Reapings.

She tucks on the shoes left at the front door and makes a beeline for the kitchen—from there, the only door to the backyard is present. She almost sprints out, hoping to see what Lennox has to show her, but skids to a slow walk when she spots Ashley himself sitting at the table. He's sitting in his own spot, directly across from Fern's.

And in Fern's spot is the missing picture.

There's a lost look on his face, bottle blue eyes appearing almost dimmer than usual. There's bags under his eyes and an overall saggy look to his face. Ham isn't even sure he's noticed her enter, his gaze resting entirely on the picture of himself and his brother. Ham decides to take a chance with greeting him, though doesn't expect much of a response in return.

"Morning, Ash," she tries loudly. Ashley doesn't budge. Doesn't even make a sound. "Ashley?"

He just sits there, unfazed. Ham scratches the back of her head and frowns. This is a routine for them by now: Ashley struggles during most days—Reapings the most—and Ham walks into a wall trying to figure out how to bring him back out. There's really not a lot she can do for him, other than just be there.

She settles to fill a glass of water for him, leaving it by his side and saying, "Don't forget to hydrate." When she first started trying to take care of him, it felt _weird_ —he's two years older than her after all—but now it feels like second nature. Ham feels almost guilty when she doesn't try to be the older sibling nowadays.

Ashley doesn't respond, but she still leaves knowing that he has something for when he gets thirsty. Ham shuts the door behind her softly. She wiggles her feet in her shoes to get them to fit properly, and then starts into a lazy jog. The shed is a short distance away from the Hamilton residence, shared by practically everyone who works under Lennox. It's not big or fancy by any means, but it still manages to snuggly fit everything they need in the one place.

As she approaches, Lennox's voice stands out as a few choice words register in her mind. Ham slows her jog to a walk, rounding the corner of the gate almost cautiously as she peeks between each gap in the pickets. She can make out dark skin and a long ponytail of hair, but otherwise can't place who might be with Lennox.

"You need more people in your shift, Maggie," Lennox is going on as Ham spots him coming out of the shed. He's got a small box tucked under his arm, labelled messily as _ROPES._ The person beside him—who, Ham notices, is a decidedly tall woman—simply shifts on her feet and crosses her arms in front of her chest. "I can personally vouch for her work ethic— Ah, Ham!"

Ham jumps when Lennox calls out to her. She'd hoped he would let her walk over without drawing attention to her. Maggie turns her head ever so slightly to look over her shoulder, almost disdainfully as her brown eyes lock with Ham's. From where she stands, Ham can see how much Maggie's arms bulge out from the sleeves of her shirt. It's almost intimidating—the only thing keeping her from stuttering her greeting is having a burlier man for a father.

"Good morning," she says politely. She's quick to look to Lennox, gesturing back to the house. "Are you busy…? Because I can go back in and see if Ash will—"

"No need," Lennox says with a grimace. "At this point you just have to wait it out. Besides, Maggie here was a surprise I had in mind for you." He hands Maggie the rope box and grins at Ham.

Maggie simply purses her lips, still looking almost like she's inconvenienced by Ham's presence. "Len, please," she sighs. "We have enough for now—"

" _For now_ ," Lennox interrupts. "A good chunk of the others are retiring after this year. You're going to be working the same area my group does—what you have won't be enough."

Ham blinks at the two of them. "Is this work talk?"

Maggie lets out a scoff. "Why _else_ would I be here?" she spits. "I have better things to do, but _clearly_ being begged to take you into my shift demands more of my attention."

Almost immediately, Ham squints up at Lennox. He looks down at her with his brows raised, as though he's daring her to make a big deal out of his efforts.

"What if I want to work in Ewan's shop?" she tries.

"You broke a mahogany table while trying to sand it and declared it the most embarrassing moment of your life. Unlikely."

"Paper making?"

Lennox laughs once. "Next one."

" _Carpentry_."

"You hate heights."

"I could always carry—"

Maggie sighs loudly, cutting her off, and turns on her heel. Lennox calls after her. "Maggie, wait! I promise, she'll be a valuable member of the team—just shadow her during my next shift!"

The woman barely even looks back at him as she walks through the gate. "Good day, Mr. Hamilton."

"Maggie—"

" _Good. Day_."

She disappears from their lines of sight. Lennox lets out a deflated sigh, an almost disappointed expression on his face. Ham looks up at him guiltily. He turns to the shed and reaches in for another box, and then shuts the door behind him. Once the padlock is in place, he turns back to Ham with an almost apologetic smile.

"Sorry, kiddo," he sighs. "Thought I'd have you set with Maggie."

Ham shrugs. "There'll be other shifts," she reassures him. "I'm sure I can last being a temp for some until a spot opens up. Won't be any different to being in your shift."

He smiles a little more warmly.

"So what's with the box?" She gestures to it vaguely, trying to spot a label on it as Lennox moves to walk around her. He simply smiles knowingly and nods for her to follow, heading back in the direction of the kitchen door.

They head back to the house at a slow pace, the box's mystery left up in the air between them. Ham peeks around Lennox's arm as often as she can for some kind of hint, the curiosity almost too agonising for her to bear. She knows almost every box in that shed, having been in there many times herself to fetch things for Lennox's shift, but this one has never been touched by her, let alone seen. It's not worn down like the other boxes, no frayed edges or faded marker detailing what might be inside. She can't hear rattling, suggesting either tightly compact contents or even something fitting inside snuggly.

Lennox opens the door to the kitchen quietly, peeking inside. Around him Ham can see Ashley at the table, the glass of water in his hand and his thumb softly drumming against his chin. He's moved, at least. And he's hydrating.

"Ash, I need a favour," Lennox announces. Ashley slowly brings his gaze up to his father. Lennox walks inside and slides the box across the table to him, speaking with a soft voice Ham knows he only saves for hard times. "Help Ham with this—you might need to use some material from your own clothes to alter it."

Ham shuffles in behind Lennox, unable to meet Ashley's eye. Her older brother merely opens the box and peeks within, stifling a gasp within seconds of seeing its contents. She watches as he chews his lip and lets out a pained sound, and then Ashley's rising with the box and staring Ham down almost dejectedly.

"I'll warm up the sewing machine," he tells her in a dull, almost lifeless voice. "You don't need to change. Just bring one of your shirts so I can measure it right."

With that, he stalks out of the kitchen.

Ham looks between the retreating Ashley and their father, almost bewildered. Clearly _Ashley_ knew what was in the box the moment he looked in, but she can't imagine what it'd be.

"What'd you give him?" she blurts out. Lennox winks down at her. He starts to walk out of the kitchen, heading in the direction of the living room. Ham scrunches up her face at him. "No, Dad— What's in the box?"

Lennox ignores her almost tauntingly as he calls out, "Ewan, how's Willow doing?"

She stamps her foot childishly on the floor. Lennox continues to ignore her. Ham groans loudly, making extra certain that Lennox—and perhaps even Ewan and Willow—can hear her. She stalks in the direction Ashley had moved for, ascending the stairs and stomping down the upper hall towards her room. Ashley and Fern's room is a short distance from her own, so it'll be no problem dropping off some shirts for Ashley to measure. She still can't figure out why he'd need to, but she at least hopes he lets her peek into the box.

Her hopes are dashed when Ashley only opens his door a crack, snatching her shirt from her and shutting it in her face before she has time to even flinch. Ham's brows twitch in annoyance. She never likes it when her family conducts secret squirrel business about her.

With a final huff and another stamp of her foot, Ham loudly proclaims, "I'm going for a walk!"

* * *

Context can be a funny thing sometimes. She finds it clears things up _a lot_ more than simply putting pieces together on your own. But, Ham thinks to herself, no amount of context in the world will make how Head Peacekeeper Burrow came to this agreement make sense.

Two stools pushed on either side of a tree stump, a small crowd gathered around as people shout out their bets to the punters. Ham scratches at her shoulder and chews her lip as she looks over the line of rookie Peacekeepers standing near Burrow; the moment they look over at her, she averts her gaze and stares at the tree stump.

A chorus of laughter rings out, and she can hear one person boldly proclaim, "Not only is she small, she can't even look at us!"

Another one chimes in, "You're pulling our legs here, boss."

Burrow ignores their jeers. Instead, they look over to Ham and call out, "Sorry to do this on short notice, Miss Hamilton."

"No problem," Ham calls back. She takes a few steps to the stump, begins to pull out her chair. "I had time to kill anyway."

The small crowd starts to rile up the rookies. Burrow joins Ham's side as the two wait for the rookies to decide who will go first. "I also heard Mr. Hamilton was hoping to get you into Magnolia's shift," they observe. "My squad supervises hers, coincidentally."

Ham stares up at them blankly. "He was talking to a lady named Maggie today about it," she says slowly.

Burrow smiles wryly. "That would be Magnolia, yes."

Ham blinks. Then she flushes red at the obvious connection between the two names.

"Not everyone gets it," Burrow laughs. "Let's just say her first name doesn't fit her 'image'. Something you'd know about."

"Boss!"

They both look over to the rookies, who have now lined up messily in front of the stump. A tall, albeit wiry man is at the front. Burrow looks him up and down once, before announcing, "First up: Peacekeeper Hale!"

And so begins the series of arm wrestling matches. Burrow lists off the rookies one by one, each one complaining loudly after their turns that Ham must be cheating somehow. Ham can only roll her eyes and stretch her hand each time, her impatience slowly growing along with the portion of winnings Burrow had promised her for her time.

Halfway through the line, the burliest of all the rookies is up next. He looks like he'd been raised in 7, from the way his shoulders poke out and his arms bulge, but Ham would be willing to bet he's from 2 and lived off of a strict training regime. A lot of them are like that, which is why most of them get pissy whenever Burrow makes her beat them in arm wrestling matches.

The rookie—Burrow announces his name as Russo—stops his superior from starting the match when he sits down, raising a calming hand as he removes his helmet. Unlike the others, he actually tries to look Ham in the eye; Ham is quick to look away, focusing on the helmet he sits on his lap.

"You work a lot, kid?" Russo starts. Ham nods.

"I fill in for some of the cutters and loaders," she says. "Mostly in my dad's group."

"How much do you think you could carry at once?"

Ham scrunches up her face. She's never really thought about that before. "I dunno. One-thirty? One-forty?"

Russo smirks. He positions his arm on the stump and flexes his fingers. With a single glance to Burrow, he signals that he's ready to challenge Ham.

Unlike the others, Russo takes a little more of Ham's effort to beat. He throws all of his strength into his first push, clenching her hand so tightly she swears she can't feel it at one point. The two of them wind up holding the same position for more than half a minute, giving Ham enough time to wonder if whatever lesson Burrow wanted to teach will be lost here.

She feels his nails dig into her hand, the smug smile on his face growing by the second. Ham can feel her veins bulging as she applies more pressure, scrunching up her face and glaring at his meaty fingers.

"Should've looked for work in the paper factories," Russo mutters teasingly. Ham lets out a snarl, offended by the statement. "Little girls like you aren't suited for chopping trees."

With a burst of anger and energy, Ham slams his hand down onto the stump. The glove of his uniform gathers splinters, scraping against the wood. Russo stares down at the hand, flabbergasted.

"Should've requested District Twelve," she throws back at him. "At least there you wouldn't have to worry about the Avoxes talking back to you."

Russo jumps to his feet and reaches for his belt. Ham watches the taser dangling from it, jumping into her own fighting stance as she spots his fingers brush the handle. She barely has time to raise her fists high before Burrow interrupts them. They throw down their riding crop down against the surface of stump—Ham's certain that Burrow is the only Head Peacekeeper who carries one around.

Without missing a beat as the two flinch, Burrow announces, "You've had your turn, Russo. Acknowledge her."

Russo stares at Ham. She keeps her eyes on his uniform, on the taser at his belt. She hears him spit loudly at his side; without so much as a word of acknowledgement towards Ham, Russo turns on his heel and storms through the crowd.

Definitely a man raised in 2, Ham thinks.

The matches proceed without much fuss after that. One woman even goes so far as to compliment how long Ham can keep up her strength with each match. She's not sure just how long it all takes, but it certainly feels like hours by the time the last rookie takes their walk of shame. The lumberjacks from 7 who had all gathered around and taken bets hoot and holler each time, one of them even yelling out slurs against the Peacekeepers in his excitement. Burrow lets it slide, to Ham's surprise, and they have no trouble pulling Ham's hand into the air and declaring her "better than the fresh meat".

The rookies merely concede their defeat as they march away, back to the areas Burrow tells them to head to. One man from Lennox's shift excitedly hands Ham a wad of notes and a bag of coins as he makes his leave, and soon it's just Ham and Burrow left to clean the place up.

Ham tucks both of the chairs over her shoulders, leaving her money with Burrow, as she asks them, "So what was that all about?"

"Hm?" Burrow looks down at her through their visor. It's easier for Ham to look at their face this way. She can't see their eyes, can't feel naked under someone else's gaze. "Oh, right. Normally we get Mr. Hamilton—Lennox—to do it each year. A lot of rookies request Seven and use the District as a show of strength against each other. Call it a pissing contest, even."

"And normally Dad just… arm wrestles them?"

"Oh, no. Normally it's a full-on wrestling match, no armour or protection given." Burrow adjusts their gloves. Ham can hear her money jingle in their shoulder pocket. "This is just a way to show that respect is a two-way street in this District. The kids from Two can't lord over everyone without consequence, and the ones from the Capitol are just as much a citizen here as you and me. The ones like Russo tend to get sent away after Reapings; too high a risk of displaying their 'power' against citizens over minor issues."

Ham flinches, but is quick to see the caution in Burrow's plan. She has no doubt it goes against most Peacekeeper policies, letting someone in the District attack a troop, but she will agree that it's a good way to weed out the ones who want to use their power to brutalise the residents. From what Ham had seen, everyone but Russo had come to quickly accept the lesson.

"Speaking of Reapings," Burrow goes on, "it's your last year, right?"

"Yeah." Ham nods. "Can't wait to get a good night's sleep for another twelve years."

"A relief, I'm sure." The two make it out of the closed off area, back into the bustle of District 7 during its morning markets. Burrow zips open their shoulder pocket and pulls out Ham's winnings. In one fluid motion, they take one of the chairs and slide her money into her hand. As Ham passes them the other chair, Burrow says, "Good luck with Magnolia."

This'll be the last time Ham sees Burrow before the Reapings, she thinks as she turns on her heel. It's a short jog from the clearing to the gate of her house. Not quite close to the town square, but still close enough that she won't waste her time running the whole way home. It's peaceful for her, taking a break from the ups and downs this morning has provided so far.

And she has money. Money can be pretty good.

She stops by one of the stalls on her way and purchases a snack. It's quick to munch on for the rest of the walk home, something to keep her from getting peckish later on. From there it's a non-stop trip home.

When she walks inside the front door, Ashley is the first to greet her. He looks to have taken a break from whatever Lennox had given him to work on, measuring tape slung around his neck like a scarf as he pours himself a glass of juice. He notices her almost immediately and nods for her to follow him. Ham barely has time to set down the remainder of her money, let alone take off her shoes, as she follows.

Ashley's always been good with delicate work, like sewing and carving patterns. His eyesight is better than Lennox's by far, and his fingers are just thin and steady enough to avoid mistakes. Fern was the same, though recently Ashley's stopped sewing as frequently. Ham finds it almost miraculous that a mere box had convinced him to do anything today.

He swings open his door with a yawn, the bags under his eyes obvious now that she's closer to him; Ashley barely wastes any time directing Ham's attention toward the far side of his room—to where his old bunk bed used to reside—as he sips at his juice. She can see bits and pieces of cloth strewn about the floor, a few sewing tools littering the carpet.

"It's not the best job done," he tells her slowly, "but you only need it for today."

Laid out on the shelf, folded up into a neat pile, are two items of clothing. The same colour as the scraps on the floor, and the same material. There's obvious stitches in some areas, but otherwise Ham can't even tell they'd been altered.

She pulls up the soft, white shirt—and upon looking at the tag, she drops it back onto the bed. _F.H._ , it declares in black marker.

"Dad kept Fern's old Reaping clothes?" she asks, more shocked than anything.

Ashley takes a long gulp of his juice. He sets the empty glass on his desk and sinks into his chair. "Waste not, want not," he sighs. "Two of us had enough similar clothes to pass onto you, at least."

"Yeah, but…" She bites her lip. "Are you sure?"

"Ham, seriously," Ashley sighs. "Just try it on. You only have to wear it once."

With that, he stands back up and exits his room. Ashley slides the door shut behind him with a soft click. Ham is left alone with the clothes.

Now is a better time than any to try on the shirt and pants. Ham makes quick work of it all, frowning as she avoids the mirror until she's absolutely certain she's done. The shirt is buttoned up with a little difficulty—were Fern and Ashley smaller around the arms than her?—and the pants sit a little loosely, though that at least is fixed by the suspenders Ashley left behind. Ham breathes in deeply and clenches her fists tightly by her sides, and then in one jerky movement she turns for the mirror.

From the other side of the room, a short young woman in neat clothes stares back at her. For a second she thinks it's someone else in her family—they all have those bottle blue eyes, the short black hair—but when she spots the large birthmark on her cheek, Ham knows it's _her_. And boy, does Ham clean up nicely.

She gives her reflection a sheepish grin. It still feels awkward wearing her brothers' old clothes, but at least she can smile back at herself instead of furiously fiddling with buttons on a dress. It looks nice.

Ashley isn't back by the time fifteen minutes pass. Ham sits at the end of his bed patiently, cracking her knuckles as she looks around at his belongings. The silence almost feels eerie, uncomfortable. Ham thinks she can sit through it until Ashley comes back—but it's all too soon before she's sneaking out through the door and looking up and down the hall. There's no sign of him waiting outside, nor at the top of the staircase. The bathroom door is wide open, and she can't hear anyone inside her own room.

Downstairs, she thinks. Ham walks quickly to the stairs, ready to call out to him. Just as she opens her mouth and gets ready to say his name, an shrill voice cuts her off. Ham flinches at the sound of it. She knows that voice: It's the unmistakable sound of Lola Amos getting giddy over something "scandalous".

Ham practically sprints for the living room.

District 3's Reaping is being broadcast live with Lola's commentary, three Hamiltons sitting anxiously on the couch with their hands over their mouths. Ashley sits between Willow and Ewan, Willow's arm draped comfortingly over his shoulder as she watches the screen anxiously. Ham watches as the four-eyed escort calls for their Tribute—a small girl, immediately noted to have Tourettes when she shrieks onstage at the escort; after what feels like forever, she notices something's missing.

There's no mentor standing by the Tribute yet. Normally they shake hands or something, pose together to appeal to the Capitol. But the 3 girl is alone. Ham blinks in confusion as someone comes up onstage, wondering just what circumstances led District 3 to not show their mentor.

And then Ashley screams at the top of his lungs.

Ewan immediately drags him to the floor, Willow quick to jump away and shield her belly. Ham jolts forward as well, landing on one of Ashley's flailing arms as he screams obscenities at the TV. What starts out as angry yelling and a commotion that would normally attract Peacekeeper intervention turns into weak sobbing, Ashley's limp body trapped under his older brother and younger sister.

"I'll get Dad," Ewan mutters to Ham. Ham nods and hurriedly brings Ashley into an embrace, doing her best to comfort him and keep his eyes away from the screen. By the time she has a chance to see what had made him snap in such a way, the 3 girl is being led into the Justice Building.

Willow seems to pick up on Ham's curiosity. With a great deal of reluctance on her face, hands still shielding her belly, Willow says, "It was Synthia. Synthia's the mentor."

Recognition flares in Ham's gut, right alongside her own fury. She and everyone else in this house knew the name Synthia Quanta all too well. In her eyes, Ashley had every right to be mad.

Synthia Quanta, the bitch of the 96th Games, is the mentor for District 3.

* * *

The bitter feeling isn't gone, even when she gets a front row seat to the Quell's Reaping.

Ham squints at the stage with an almost spiteful groan, occasionally shuffling as other girls her age join her. They're all gushing about how it's their last year in the Reapings, letting out relieved sighs at making it to eighteen so far. Ham would normally join them, but the surprise with Synthia is a _little_ bit hard to get over.

She hopes District 3 tanks this year.

An elbow digs into her side, leaving an ache in her ribs as she glances over to a girl beside her. Bespectacled and covered in freckles, she smiles down at Ham with the familiarity of friends. Only Ham doesn't know who she is.

"It'll all be over today," the girl cheers. Ham smiles awkwardly back to her.

"Yay," she says weakly.

"I can't _wait_ to start working at my mom's furniture shop—she says I have a natural talent for sanding and carving!" She looks at Ham expectedly. "What're you gonna do after today?"

Ham shrugs. "What I've always done?" she tries. "I'm pretty good at cutting and loading, so I mean…"

The girl nods in agreement. "You look like a loader to me."

"The build?" Ham guesses. Most people make the assumption based on the amount of bulk she's accumulated, so it wouldn't come as a surprise if this girl thinks on the same reasoning.

Instead of agreeing, she shakes her head. "Your hands—they're scarred and calloused. Dad says the loaders get that the most."

"Huh." Ham looks down at her hands in bewilderment. "I never noticed…"

A hand is shoved in her face. It's held like it wants to be shaken, accompanied by the girl's sweet voice saying, "I'm Myrtle."

"H—Ham." She shakes Myrtle's hand with wide eyes. Myrtle laughs softly.

"That's an odd name," she notes. "Your parents like ham a lot?"

"No, no!" Ham scratches the back of her neck. "Ham's a nickname—my surname's Hamilton. My first name's kinda embarrassing."

Myrtle raises a brow. "More then mine?"

It sounds almost like a challenge. A challenge Ham won't take right now. "Take my word for it," she says instead.

There's more girls in their section, pushing Myrtle and Ham closer to the front more and more. They bump into each other a lot, laughing to themselves each time. Almost all of the bitterness is gone, Ham notes. Every time Myrtle tries to grab her attention, it just feels like it'll melt away.

She takes the time to really take in Myrtle's appearance as they shuffle around. She's taller than Ham, even a little paler, and everything about her looks too refined for a 7 girl. Delicately dulled nails, expertly plucked brows, and stylish hair swept over her shoulder. If Ham had a type, Myrtle would fit right to a T.

Myrtle glances down at Ham— _crap, was she staring?_ —and smiles sweetly at her again. Ham smiles back, a little more confident than at the beginning of their interactions.

"When this is all done," Myrtle starts, "do you wanna… I dunno, I don't want to be presumptuous, but do you wanna hang out and get something to eat together?"

Something to eat together. Hang out. That's code for something, right? For a date? Ham's stomach does a backflip. Is Myrtle asking her on a date?

There's a loud thump from in front of them before Ham can even answer, startling the two girls into attention. Myrtle grabs Ham's hand out of fright, only to immediately drop it with a deep flush on her face. Ham tries not to laugh, covering her mouth with her hand and focusing on the escort.

This year is the year of a new escort, and Ham can't help thinking District 7 got _the_ worst escort this year. There's rude ones and gaudy ones, and even loud ones that damaged Tributes' hearings. But this one takes the cake.

Prosthetic cat ears at the top of her head, whiskers implanted on her face and a giant, fluffy prosthetic tail protruding from the back of her dress. _This_ is what Ham is being farewelled from the Reapings by.

To make things worse, the escort immediately says to the crowd, "Good afternoon, effurryone!"

Cat puns. She's dressed as a cat and using cat puns. Ham can feel her soul leaving her body.

"My nyame is Cirrus and I'll be the escort for District Seven! I hope mew all have a purrfect day today!" Cirrus winks at the camera crew residing by the rows. It all must be for show, all for the Capitol. God, Ham hopes it is. "Befurr we start, I'd love to introduce mew all to the mentor: Meowgnolia Hammond!"

There's a weak, confused clapping from all directions. Ham watches as Maggie—Magnolia—walks onstage with an almost dead gaze trained at Cirrus. She can only assume Magnolia hates the cat puns as much as everyone else.

"Meowgnolia won the Ninety-Fifth Games and volunteered to help with mentoring this year. I've got a good feline about her, don't mew all?"

No response. No one wants to respond—at least for Ham, she doesn't want to say anything out of fear that Cirrus will just keep _talking_. Instead of looking upset by the lack of response, Cirrus just smiles mischievously at the children before her.

"Tough crowd," she muses. "No purroblem. We'll just get on with the Reaping!"

Myrtle leans down and whispers to Ham, "I pity whoever gets Reaped by her."

"I pity _Meowgnolia_ ," Ham whispers back. "She looks like she's not getting paid enough to deal with Cirrus."

Cirrus plunges her hand into the Reaping Ball that had been dropped a short distance from her. "May the odds be efur in your favour, effurryone!"

Ever so faintly, Ham can hear Magnolia wheeze out, " _Christ_."

The paper is plucked out ferociously, a triumphant meow sounding from Cirrus as she waves it about. Ham _really_ hopes whoever gets stuck with her doesn't murder her before the Games start. Better yet, she hopes Cirrus drops the cat puns once the cameras are off. There would be no greater mercy to that poor kid than the absence of cat puns.

Cirrus pops open the paper and grins down at the name. She reads it to herself once, rolls her eyes up in thought— _she's trying to turn this kid's name into a cat pun!_

"Phyllhiss Nyamilton!" she announces.

Phyllhiss… Phyllis. Nyamitlon… _Hamilton_. Phyllis Goddamn Hamilton. _That's Ham_!

As the terrible cat pun registers—as well as the fact that she just got _Reaped_ —Ham glances left and right for signs of Peacekeepers. She can see Burrow looking right at her, hand slowly moving for their taser as the two stare each other down. Surrounding the children in the square are the ones Ham had beaten in the arm wrestling matches—and closest to her is Russo.

Myrtle looks down at her in horror. She barely gets any time to say anything before Ham bolts from her line.

Ashley breaks away from the rest of the family, almost knocking over Ewan in his rush to get to Ham. She watches him as she sprints with all her might, Russo at her tail. The last thing Ham wants is to be taken away from Ashley. The last thing Ashley wants is to lose another sibling to the Hunger Games. Ashley calls out to her, almost desperately, and Ham can feel her lungs burn as she passes the thirteens section.

She almost makes it to Ashley, reaching out for him. He reaches for her as well, and for a fleeting second Ham thinks she'll be able to escape with him—hide somewhere. But when the taser hits Ashley's arm and the man screams through the shocks, all hope is shattered to pieces. Ham skids to a stop as she watches him convulse on the ground, pained sounds coming from him as the Peacekeepers gather around him menacingly. She can only watch in horror, before finally being dragged back to her own predicament by Russo tackling her from behind.

It's a short struggle. He tries to lift her and carry her onstage, she pulls off his helmet and headbutts him. Ham herself winds up tasered from the abdomen, a smug, "Acknowledge _this_ ," whispered in her ear as Russo takes her to the stage.

No one volunteers. No one listens as Ashley sobs for someone—anyone else—to take Ham's place. Magnolia helps her to stand once Russo backs off, and everything Cirrus says after falls on deaf ears. Ham watches with an almost hopeless gaze as Ashley is pulled away from the proceedings by the Peacekeepers. He's clearly going to be charged for trying to help her run, and she's not even sure if Lennox will be able to convince Burrow to lessen the punishment.

Lennox says something to Ewan and Willow before running off after Ashley and the Peacekeepers. A man with a plan, Ham thinks as she stares at his retreating figure. Always ready to take action in a time of need.

As the Reaping comes to an end, Cirrus using a godawful amount of cat puns to wrap things up, she can feel her limbs start to cooperate with her again. Magnolia still helps her into the Justice Building, but for the most part acts like this is just like any other day in District 7.

They make it into the waiting room with enough time for a visit to spare. With an almost amused tone, Magnolia tells her, "I guess you're in my shift after all."

Ham laughs bitterly. "Not that you wanted me in the first place."

There's a pause, and then, "Would you have wanted to leave your father, either?"

Only Ewan and Willow can visit Ham. Magnolia sits with Ham the whole time, watching her like a hawk as she says her goodbyes. It's a claustrophobic affair, the two engulfing Ham in a tight hug that she can hardly breathe through. All the while, apologies are whispered in her ears.

Willow hands Ham her old ring—a small wooden one that Ewan had carved as an engagement ring. She makes sure Ham has a surefire grip on it as she says, "For luck. I don't care if you have to leave it behind or if you lose it—a ring is nothing compared to a little sister, okay?"

Ham nods. The weight of the ring feels almost heavy in her hand at Willow's words, but she knows she'll need all the luck she'll get with the Tributes in the Games so far. Willow takes a step back and moves for Magnolia, saying something Ham can't quite hear. Magnolia watches stoically as Ewan pulls Ham's attention back to him. His hands clamp down on her shoulders, his grip almost desperately as he bends down to look her in the eye.

"Be smart about it," Ewan tells her. "Learn from the mistakes made during Fern's Games."

It's hard to say goodbye. All of the bitterness that had been settled by Myrtle is back, a stark reminder that she's really in the Games. She's really going to be facing off against kids mentored by her brother's murderer. The door closes behind Ewan and Willow ever so silently, leaving Ham and Magnolia to sit wordlessly through the rest of their allotted time. She taps her finger against her knee insistently as the seconds tick by.

What would happen if she got a chance to see Synthia one on one? What would happen if Ham was left with the choice of taking the life of the girl with Tourettes? Would Magnolia even help her with such a goal, knowing how Synthia had won her own Games? Regardless of Magnolia's moral standpoint, Ham makes her decision then and there.

"Maggie?" Ham says. Magnolia hums, inviting her to go on. Ham clenches her fists tightly. The ring digs into her palm almost painfully. "I'm going to _destroy_ District Three."

* * *

 **There we go! Ham is done and I can get back to the better characters _good lord i'm free_**

 **Fun fact: The weight Ham estimated first (130lbs) is her own weight, meaning she can carry roughly her own weight.**

 **Another fun fact: Cetronia Livius is _still_ the most physically strong Tribute so far, however.**

 **All that aside, it was really difficult to keep this at a good pace once I hit Cirrus's dialogue. All the cat puns killed me, and it's for that reason that our Quell Question this chapter is this:**

 **QQ #2:** If Cirrus met your Tribute, what kind of cat pun would she use for their name? (e.g., Phyllhiss "Nyam" Nyamilton)

 **If you can't think of any, feel free to try with other characters you have or with other Tributes yet to be introduced!** **Till District 8, folks!**


	9. Doubts

**District 8! It was difficult finding a title for this chapter, but I think this one fits the mood of the later half**

 **This lil kiddo was sent in by** shiftseveny **! I hope I did a good job!**

* * *

 **08 - Doubts**

Her finger barely shakes anymore as she pushes the pin through the thick fabric. Three weeks ago she'd been full of fear and nerves over the idea of messing up, but today she comes to notice just how much she's improved.

To say Chambray is giddy over her progress is an understatement.

Ever since learning about Calico's journal, since he trusted her enough to show her the sketches inside, she's been adamant to show her appreciation in a way that wouldn't make him uncomfortable. Hugs and the like would make him recluse in on himself, close off from Chambray by only a little bit—but every bit of him he showed her was important. And so Chambray did the one thing she knew she'd be good at, that maybe even Calico could appreciate.

Organza used to do a lot of embroidering back when she was younger, Chambray had recalled last month. It'd taken less convincing than she'd thought to get her mother to show her the basics of the craft, to supply her with yarn and a frame. It was almost as though Organza knew just what intentions Chambray had in mind when she'd said, "It's for Callie."

Chambray has a brilliant memory, and with it she's been recreating images of the flowers he'd drawn in his journal. She has no idea where he'd found them—District 8 is basically a barren, smoky wasteland compared to even District 12—but the detail he'd captured them in spoke leagues of how much he treasured those finds.

Over the past three weeks she's completed every flower except for one. They'd all been somewhat easier to complete, simple colours and designs for her to follow from memory. But a hydrangea is a cluster of complication that she needs all of her focus for. For three days Chambray has woken up earlier than Calico just to peek at his journal, just to make sure what she's doing is _right_. The hydrangea has to be perfect—it's his favourite one, after all.

In and out. In and out. The pale purple thread slowly spreads over the fabric in a simple pattern. The cluster is slowly growing, even if it's just at a snail's pace. But it'll be ready by their birthdays. She'll make sure of it.

Under the light of her desk lamp, she can feel the sweat beading on her brow. She has to take breaks every now and then to stop from getting burnt by the light, and with each one she can see how much farther she's getting. Chambray smiles proudly to herself, at the budding hydrangea. Calico will love it, she's certain of it.

A soft knock sounds at her door. Chambray is quick to drop her needle and fling herself over the fabric, the blanket over her shoulders acting as a shield to the image. Only her head is poking out as the door opens, heavy footsteps entering the room.

Poplin Hemingway looks her up and down with a squint, an uncertain groan in the back of his throat. Chambray blinks at him, waiting for him to figure out if it's her or Calico under the blanket, before finally she says, "Cham, Dad."

Poplin exhales with relief. "Thank you, Cham," he wheezes. "I swear, I actually got stuck there for a second."

She nods in understanding as she pulls the blanket off of the frame. Poplin catches sight of the embroidery, slides the door shut behind him as he checks for any sign of Calico. When he turns back to Chambray, there's an almost excited smile on his face. "So this is the enigmatic gift Organza told me about," he says lightly.

Chambray flushes ever so slightly. She tugs at the yarn threaded through the needle, almost embarrassed at the comment. "It won't be done for a bit," she mumbles. Poplin chuckles.

"He'll love it."

She nods in agreement. "I know he will. I just hope I can get this hydrangea right so it doesn't come out looking like a deformed blob."

Another soft laugh, probably at the mental image she'd conjured in him. Poplin takes his time walking over to her, watching over her shoulder as she threads another stitch into the fabric. He lets out a pleased hum, almost praising her, before he pats her shoulder softly.

"Hate to pull you away," he says, "but I came to see if you and Callie would make a delivery for me?"

Chambray hums curiously.

"Your mother was commissioned to make dresses for the mentor this year."

"Oh?" Chambray turns in her seat to actually look up at him. "She knows who it is?"

"Charlotte Harper. Young woman, hates Capitol clothing," he sighs. "Organza just now finished up the last of her order, but we need to go to the market for more supplies."

She hums as she mulls over the decision. It'd get Calico out of the house for once, and they'd only spend time with each other. No one ever goes to the Victors' Village, either, so he won't be bothered by the idea of people forcing him to socialise. It'd just be the two of them, able to talk about the things only they can enjoy.

"We get the bike, yeah?"

Poplin grins.

* * *

"Goggles?"

"Check." Chambray slides them snugly over her eyes. Calico crosses off a line on his list.

"Sturdy gloves?"

She checks either side of the large leather gloves. No holes, no frays. "Check."

"Something to cover your mouth?"

As he says this, Chambray ties the folded bandana around her face. "Check," comes her muffled voice.

Calico nods with a satisfied hum. He snaps his journal shut and tucks it into his back pocket, then pulls his own goggles over his eyes and wraps a scarf around the lower half of his face. The backpack that holds Charlotte's clothes is slung over his front, protected from being squashed while also keeping Calico's own torso safe if he falls out.

He climbs into the sidecar, careful not to tangle his feet in the small belt tucked inside. Once he's comfortable, he pushes the earplugs into his ears and gives Chambray a thumbs up.

The bike roars to life with a splutter. It sounds almost like a Peacekeeper's rifle going off, followed by the humming of a malfunctioning hovercraft. Everyone in the area is used to the sounds by now, none of them even batting an eye when Chambray guides the bike slowly onto the streets. The bike slowly picks up speed until she's on the bare road, weaving around pedestrians and other bikes.

This bike has been in their family for a while, miraculously still running after all these years. It's thin and expels a lot of exhaust, but it's a fast little thing. Poplin said he wouldn't part with it until it stopped moving altogether, which Chambray finds to be a relief. She's grown attached to the old bike since she started doing the deliveries with Calico. It has a certain character to it.

She speeds past a few kids dressed in school uniforms, returning from their morning assemblies. Around the corners, fitting narrowing between vendors. District 8 looks like a maze when they travel through its streets. All of the buildings are the same dull grey, every factory looking alike right down to the size of the smoke billowing out of the chimneys. Chambray knows that the inside looks the same in every factory as well—she and Calico have worked in several, resulting in their shared raspy voices and aged tones. It's become the norm for kids to have a voice like that nowadays, she notes as a few enter a factory. Smaller hands make for better work, and there's never a shortage of smoke and steam in the factories.

A small group of Peacekeepers watch as they ride past. By now this is a normal sight for the newer ones, deliveries an almost constant necessity in their bustling District. Some delivery kids actually stop to talk with the Peacekeepers on their way back, bold enough to show their brashness right in front of the troops, but not Calico and Chambray. The Peacekeepers make Calico uncomfortable almost as much as people who are touchy-feely, and Chambray doesn't like the idea of being scrutinised for merely existing in a place that happens to have a high crime rate and low approval of the Capitol.

Chambray brings the bike to a slow as they get closer to the gates of the Victors' Village. The wrought iron stands out against the brick walls dividing the so-called paradise from the rest of District 8, like a giant sign broadcasting what everyone would have if they were _just a little better_ at not getting killed in the Hunger Games. Chambray's always hated how barbaric the Hunger Games are, how people are praised for killing children younger than them. At the front of the gates are two Peacekeepers, both guarding the entrance like it's a train bound for the Capitol.

She needs only to show them her identification—a card with her name, the number to ring to confirm with Charlotte that they're expected—before the gates are opened and the Peacekeepers step aside to let her in. Chambray revs the bike loudly, almost deliberately, before she and Calico are propelled inside at a high speed.

According to the address Poplin had given her, Charlotte lives in the farthest corner of the Victors' Village. Far away from everyone else, no houses to either side of her. Chambray can't think of what would drive a person to want to live in isolation while in an isolated area already. The number of victors in District 8 is already fairly low, though she supposes even the victors don't like being reminded of what they've all had to do in the past.

The house is hidden behind another brick wall within the Village, positioned almost in a way that would allow Charlotte to see people coming. Chambray brings the bike to a slow as she passes it, not wanting to run into anything she can't see beyond; as soon as it's cleared, it's just a matter of navigating the long, winding road leading to the front door of Charlotte Harper's large, almost mansion-like home. Chambray's jaw drops before she can even stop herself from gasping. How can one person live all alone in a place so big?

She stops the bike just a short distance away from the gutter. It goes silent almost immediately, a final puff of exhaust coming out of its pipes as she lifts her goggles and wipes her eyes. Calico shifts, quick to remove the earplugs, as he gazes up at Charlotte's house.

"It's big," is all he can muster.

"I wonder how much she commissioned Mom for," Chambray ponders aloud. Calico hums in agreement, also curious. "Do you want me to take it over? Or do you wanna come with?"

He removes his goggles and yawns with a strained expression. "I'll stretch my legs," he tells her. "I think my foot's starting to fall asleep, so walking would be good."

Chambray grins at him. She throws herself off of the bike and wobbles a bit on her feet, then rushes to the sidecar to take the bag from Calico. He struggles to pull himself out, not nearly as strong as Chambray when it comes to pulling his own weight up, but somehow manages to stumble out of the high sidecar with a grunt. He sets down one foot, steady as he can be, and then tries to set down the other. He's right about it being asleep—almost immediately the foot buckles under the pressure of being leaned on, the ankle rolling and sending Calico back onto the sidecar with a desperate reach for help.

Chambray drops the bag and does her best to lift him up, slinging an arm over her shoulder as she holds him steady. Calico groans, hisses; he holds his foot loosely off of the ground, putting all of his weight onto Chambray.

"You alright?" Chambray asks. It's not the first time he's taken a tumble getting out of the sidecar, but it's definitely the first time he's rolled his ankle trying to walk.

Calico merely scrunches his face up at his foot. He lifts the leg of his pants to check the damage, watching as the ankle starts to turn red. It'll be hard to explain it to Organza and Poplin if he can't walk on it. They'll probably stop him from ever getting in the sidecar again, leaving Chambray to make the deliveries on her own.

"Hindsight is a funny thing," Calico replies.

She just chuckles softly at him. He lowers the pants and shakes the foot somewhat, probably in an attempt to get rid of the rest of the numbness. "I'll see if Ms. Harper has an ice pack here for you to borrow," she tells him. "After that, I'll take us to the old warehouse so you can rest it till the Reaping."

"Sounds like a plan."

It's an awkward walk to the front door, but it's adequate at the least. They don't stumble or fall, the bag doesn't drop from Calico's grip. It's all going peachy, she thinks, but whether or not it gets better will depend entirely on the secluded Charlotte's generosity. They make good time as they hobble together along the path, the front door to the house approaching faster than she'd hoped.

Just as they're a good few feet away from the doorknob, the white wood door swings open with the urgency of a panicked mother spotting her injured child outside. Chambray freezes mid-step and clings tighter to Calico. Part of her panics that Charlotte had been watching them from a window, that she'll simply dismiss them and take the package without a kind word to spare.

But instead of seeing who she wants to assume is Charlotte, Chambray sees a very… _Capitol_ -like woman in the doorway. There's a colourful silk robe shielding her body from the slight chill, a hairband holding back her bangs as the half-finished lilac makeup covers her face. A pair of entirely black eyes look in Chambray's direction, and the girl can't help the shiver that runs down her spine.

"Oh, goodness," the Capitol woman gasps. "I thought we'd missed you earlier today."

Calico shifts on his foot as Chambray blinks up at the woman in surprise. "Pardon?" Chambray squeaks.

The woman nods, lilac lips slowly curling into a relieved smile. "We went out to have brunch with the Freemans," she explains. Before Chambray can even get another word in, the woman hovers her manicured hand over her mouth. "You two _are_ the Hemingway kids, aren't you? The ones who make the deliveries for Organza?"

Chambray nods. "That's us."

A blink, the woman's nose scrunching up as she thinks hard for a second. "I thought you two were brother and sister," she says slowly.

Chambray has to bite back a laugh, exhaling softly as Calico lets out a small grumble. If it's hard for their own parents to tell the difference between them from the neck up, it should be no surprise that even strangers can't tell which one is which. When both dress in pants and sweaters, everyone thinks they're brothers. When Chambray wears a dress and Calico his regular everyday wear, everyone assumes a pair of sisters. It's almost funny how often people assume they're the same gender, solely because of how androgynous both of them appear.

"We are," Chambray explains politely. "We just look _really_ alike."

"Ah…" The woman nods in understanding. An almost uncomfortable silence settles over them, no one able to meet anyone's gaze as Chambray and Calico shift on their feet. Part of her wonders if she'll have to just signal for Calico to hand over the bag and forget asking for something to help with his ankle.

"Well—"

"Goodness, I'm so sorry for not noticing sooner—is something wrong with your foot, young man?"

Both Calico and Chambray hum in surprise. It seems neither of them had expected her to ask about it, she thinks.

Before her brother can deny anything—like he usually does, unwilling to admit he needs help to strangers—Chambray nods vigorously at the woman. "He rolled his ankle coming out of the sidecar. We were hoping you'd have an ice pack or something to help with swelling, but we don't want to impose…"

The woman scoffs. "Nonsense. Come inside, both of you— Lottie!" she calls over her shoulder. "Lottie, the dresses are here!"

She steps aside to let both of them in, waiting patiently for the twins to make it inside the large house's lobby. To say that Chambray is floored by the beauty inside the house is an understatement. Everything glistens with a certain neatness, flecks of silver and gold mixing in with the ivory floor. Chambray can feel her grip on Calico going slack as she takes in the lobby—the large, almost room-wide staircase leading to the second floor; the assortment of flowers and plants lining the walls alongside paintings framed in gold.

She's in heaven, she decides as the woman shuts the door behind them.

"I hate to be a bother," the woman says, pulling Chambray from her train of thought. As she comes back to reality, no longer drooling over a house that could never be hers, she notices that Calico has already handed the backpack to the woman. "I didn't quite get your names from Organza."

"Oh! Sorry about that," Chambray giggles. "I'm Chambray, and this is Calico. Just call us Cham and Callie for short, if you want!"

The woman nods, pleased by the names. "Obviously I'm not Charlotte," she says with a wink. Calico lets out an unimpressed grunt. "I'm Taffeta, her wife. Lottie's busy with helping Zephyr clean up—Lottie!"

There's a distant shout back to them, coming from the second floor. "What?"

"Guests!"

A groan, followed by a childish cheer. That must've been Zephyr cheering, Chambray thinks.

"Now," Taffeta goes on, her attention back to the twins, "follow me to the kitchen. I'll prepare you some tea while that ankle rests a bit."

True to Chambray's expectations, the rest of the house is even more stunning than the lobby. The living room that they walk through looks almost like it was pulled straight out of a home design magazine, and the dining room after that is large enough to host at _least_ her entire shift at the textile factory. From there is the glorious kitchen, with a space wide enough that a small team of chefs could work peacefully together.

Taffeta leads them to the bench, pulling out a stool and offering to help Calico climb up. Calico declines politely, giving Taffeta a moment of surprise as she backs away from the twins.

"You even _sound_ alike," she marvels. "Neither of you is transitioning, are you? It's just uncanny."

Chambray waves a hand with a smile. "We work in one of the factories. All the smoke left us with a rasp before we were even twelve."

Taffeta looks them up and down with a pitying gaze. "A shame," she sighs. "Your District is so lovely with its produce, yet you live in such horrid conditions. Don't you wish you had, say, the voice of an angel?"

They both shrug. "A voice is a voice," Chambray says. "Even if we sounded pretty talking, who's to say we wouldn't be tone deaf?"

Calico lets out a small huff of laughter. She grins at him, proud of the very Calico-like statement she'd made. If Taffeta were someone they knew just a little more, she's more than certain he would've said it himself. Around a practical stranger, though, Calico may as well be mute.

Taffeta takes her time looking for just the _right_ blend of tea, as she puts it, once she pulls out a small bag of frozen peas for Calico. Chambray presses the bag softly to his ankle—he hisses sharply—as she watches Taffeta flit about her kitchen.

Something isn't sitting right with her, she thinks. Something Taffeta's said just doesn't sound _right_ , like Chambray was supposed to pick up something from the barest of clues. Taffeta speaks so casually, though, it's hard to pick up what's out of place. She runs over their conversation so far with a hum.

As she does, Calico coughs quietly and keeps his gaze trained to the bench, almost as though unwilling to show interest in Taffeta. "I've never seen so many calla lilies in one place," he says lamely.

Taffeta looks over her shoulder at him with a shy smile. "They were my favourite back home," she says with a soft voice. There it is again, Chambray thinks. That casual _out of place_ sentence.

 _Your_ _District_ , she'd said earlier. _Back home_ , she's just now specified.

Chambray frowns, her brows furrowing as she asks, "Are you from a different District?"

Taffeta laughs. She pulls a small jar from the overhead cupboard. Inside are an array of colourful herbs. "Not a District, no. Capitol-born, Capitol-raised," she admits. "I moved here with Zephyr after Lottie and I got married."

"You got the short end of the stick," Calico mumbles. Chambray hisses out Calico's name, embarrassed he'd say something so cruel. Taffeta takes no offense, though. Instead, she pulls out a pearly teacup and sets to work making tea for him.

"Maybe." She sighs wistfully. "Like I said, you have such poor living conditions. I wish the President were doing more for you here. But being with Lottie is better than staying in the Capitol, to me."

The tea is prepared just as loud shouts can be heard coming from across the house. Chambray watches as Calico tenses, as he moves to take the frozen peas from her and withdraw into himself. Chambray barely gets any time to ask him if he's okay before a small bundle of energy dashes into the room. All she sees is bright red hair and a long trail of fabric being dragged along into the kitchen, the high pitched giggling of a young child filling the air.

When she finally catches a complete view of the child, he's standing right in front of her and Calico and gazing up at the two with stars in his eyes. Chambray offers him a sweet smile—prompting one in return from him—and gives him a small wave hello.

"I'm four!" he declares proudly. Chambray feigns surprise.

"Goodness, look how tall you are!" she marvels. "Do you know how old you'll be on your next birthday?"

"Five!" he yells. Calico buries his face in his hand with a sigh.

Someone else enters the room then, an exasperated sigh escaping them as they call out, "Zephyr!"

The small boy—now revealed to be Zephyr—breaks into a sprint in the direction of the doorway. He crashes into a pair of legs, clings almost insistently as he looks up at the woman with a wide grin.

This must be Charlotte, Chambray thinks. No one else is in the house as far as she knows, and the woman sounds remarkably similar to the voice that had responded to Taffeta's calls earlier. Chambray can't help staring, almost enthralled by the beauty of the woman in front of her. As Taffeta moves to Charlotte's side, planting a kiss down on her cheek, Charlotte's gaze locks with Chambray's.

Tawny gold eyes stare at her, a blemish free face remaining apathetic to the appearance of strangers in her house. Unlike Taffeta, whose hair is tied up and out of her face, Charlotte's dark curls sit around her tanned face in delicate waves. Part of Chambray feels almost jealous of Taffeta—her wife is so gorgeous!—while another part can see just why she wants to stay by Charlotte's side.

"Cham, Callie," Taffeta says to the twins, "this is Lottie. Lottie, these are Organza's children—they delivered our dresses just now."

Charlotte looks between both twins. Calico hasn't moved to glance at her yet, keeping his focus on his swollen ankle.

"I see," comes Charlotte's quiet reply. Zephyr continues to tug at her pyjama pants, almost demanding Charlotte's attention as she pats his head softly. "Why are they still here?"

Chambray flushes at the blunt question. She's seen how people react to Calico being as blunt as he is, but she's never been on the receiving end of it. She feels almost embarrassed, like she's now intruding on the Harper residence despite being invited inside.

Taffeta merely laughs and returns for Calico's teacup, placing it on a saucer and sliding it delicately to him. Calico finally acknowledges Charlotte and Zephyr, giving the duo a slight nod before blowing at the steam rising from his tea.

"I invited them inside," Taffeta says. Charlotte blinks in surprise, wide eyes on her wife. "Oh, don't be so shocked. Poor Calico rolled his ankle getting out of the sidecar of their bike, and I couldn't just send them off without giving him an ice pack."

Charlotte looks Calico up and down—just barely spots the bag of peas on his ankle as she steps further into the kitchen. Before Chambray even has a chance to prepare for the worst, Charlotte's gaze snaps onto her.

"And you are…?" Charlotte prompts.

"Ch—" She tries to hold back her stutter. "Chambray."

Charlotte hums. With nothing else to say, she picks Zephyr up and carries him over to the bench; once she places him in a stool near Chambray, she moves for the backpack on the floor. She must have gathered that the dresses are in it, and she shows no hesitation when she reaches in for the package. Wrapped in brown paper and twine, there is no hint to what the dresses inside look like.

With her breath held, Chambray turns in her stool and watches Charlotte as she unties the twine. Taffeta hovers near her wife, excited squeaks escaping her, while Zephyr and Calico find interest in their own surroundings.

The first dress to be pulled out is apparently for Taffeta. The woman squeals happily as she takes the dress from Charlotte and holds it against her body. It's an off-the-shoulder piece, almost entirely black until it reaches the bottom of its loose skirt. Towards the end of the fabric it begins to almost fade into a beautiful shade of purple, so close to matching Taffeta's makeup that Chambray almost wonders how specific the instructions Organza had been given were.

There's tears threatening to spill over from Taffeta's eyes. She looks over at the twins with almost relief in her expression. "This is better than any Capitol dress," she chokes. "It's just like six years ago."

Chambray blinks in surprise. She tries to piece together what could've happened six years prior—an event Taffeta attended? Her and Charlotte's wedding, even?—while Calico looks her up and down.

"It's like a purple pansy," he tells her. Taffeta looks at him in surprise.

"You're right!" she gasps. "Dark fading to light around the edges… Oh, now it's _beyond_ perfection!"

There's a rustling of paper after Taffeta's declaration. All eyes flit to Charlotte as she lifts out her own dress, an almost nostalgic and _proud_ expression on her face as she looks it up and down.

The dress itself is a cheongsam—Chambray's seem a few of them made before for escorts, worn on some televised Reapings. She'd had no idea Organza knew how to make one, especially since no one she knows at the factory has been taught how to. Like Taffeta's the colour fades, though instead of black it's all purple. From the collar and shoulders, down to the waist, it's all a gorgeous fuchsia; from there, it slowly gradients into royal purple. The stitching around the collar, as well as the clasp just shy of the right shoulder, are a deep, dark purple.

Charlotte actually smiles at the sight of it, casting a glance at Taffeta. Taffeta wipes at her eyes as she clutches her own dress with a shaking hand.

"It's just like the one your mother made, Lottie," she sighs.

Charlotte nods in agreement. "Right down to the feel of it," she muses. She runs a hand over the material almost longingly. "No stylist could ever capture this kind of feeling in a dress."

It takes a moment for Chambray to realise Charlotte means the emotions that the dress evokes. All manner of silk and fabric is available to stylists in the Capitol, but from the way Charlotte speaks it's as though the clothing they design are lifeless outside of their colour schemes. Like something from home feels more alive.

Charlotte turns to the twins, her smile gone as she carefully lays the dress down on one of the empty stools. Chambray can't help the audible gulp she makes once they make eye contact. She's worried that the tender moment will be ended abruptly, all because the Hemingway twins have stayed longer than Charlotte would like them to. They've intruded on what was supposed to be _their_ personal moment.

The woman inhales deeply, her eyes sliding shut as her chest rises. Calico shifts in his seat as he readjusts the peas.

"Thank you," Charlotte breathes out. She sounds almost relieved. "Your family will be paid handsomely for this."

Chambray stares at her in surprise. "It's…" She glances at Calico, speechless, as he waits for her to finish her sentence.

When she doesn't, he says simply, "It's okay. Mom was just doing her job."

The way Charlotte looks at Calico—a small grin forming on her face, brows knitted together in thought—looks almost like it's the first time she's truly seen the boy. Like she'd taken her time to acknowledge him properly, just as he did to her.

With an almost knowing look on her face, she tells the twins, "Stay another half hour. Taffeta and I will get ready while Zephyr sits with you."

"Th—Thank you," Chambray stutters. "We really didn't want to impose—"

Taffeta's already skipping out of the room, dress bundled up in her arms as she giggles to herself. Charlotte watches fondly, then casts her gaze to Zephyr. He perks up at the attention she pays him almost immediately.

"Zeph, help Callie and Cham find whatever they need. Mommy and I will only be a bit."

Zephyr nods dutifully. "Aye aye, Mama!"

From the moment Charlotte leaves the room, Zephyr climbs down from his stool and begins to bounce between both twins. He bombards them with questions—"Who is older? How did you hurt your foot? Can you make dresses too?"—and Chambray can't help the weak laugh that escapes her. All this nervousness over intruding, and all it took was two of her mother's best dresses to melt the ice entirely.

Part of Chambray likes to think Calico had something to do with Charlotte's sudden warmth. She can see bits of him in her—the bluntness, the professional way she conducts herself, the almost uncannily similar way they express themselves emotionally—and a nagging part of Chambray almost begs for someone else who understands, perhaps even sympathises with Calico.

After the fifteenth question from Zephyr ("Do you know what my shirt's made of?") the twins finally get a breath of air in. Zephyr announces that he wants a biscuit, that he can't quite reach them, and promises to share them if one of the twins helps him. He's remarkably silent for the first time since his mothers left.

Chambray walks into the kitchen and asks Calico if he wants a biscuit as well. He gives a soft confirmation, sipping the rest of his tea. He sounds almost distracted, the way he usually sounds when he pulls out his journal to document a flower or chemical reaction.

"Can you grab the blend Taffeta used for the tea, too?" he asks. "I want to note down what she used."

"Why not ask her when she comes back?" Chambray says. "I didn't even recognise half of the things in there—"

"This one!" Zephyr insists. He points up to the cupboard closest to the pantry door.

"Okay… Let's see…" Chambray reaches up and searches with her fingers for the feel of a tin, a box of some sort that'd house biscuits. When she hears a hollow clang as her nail taps the lid of something, Zephyr cheers that she's found it.

The biscuits inside look almost diabetic. One bite from any could possibly send all three into a sugar rush. Assorted pinks and blues and yellows, all covered in coconut shavings and edible beads. They look less like cookies and more like a child's attempt at cooking, mixed in with an artistic eye for colour schemes.

Zephyr picks out a blue cookie—star-shaped and covered in an impossible amount of edible glitter—and leaves Chambray to choose for herself. He practically sprints out of the kitchen, running for his mothers no doubt, as the twins try to pick the least sugary of the cookies.

As she pulls out a yellow cookie, shaped like a flower and decorated so, she says to Calico, "So much for going to the warehouse."

Calico nods in agreement. He starts to nibble on his own cookie—a pink one in the shape of a heart, simple icing decorations covering it—as he turns a page of his journal. Chambray is quick to put the cookies back in their cupboard. Just as she's about to sit with him again, Calico reminds her to grab the tea blend. She rolls her eyes and searches around a bit, and then slides the small jar in front of him as she makes her way back to her stool.

He stares at it intently. Pops open the lid and even gives it a sniff. Chambray watches him with wonder, taking in the way he makes his notes. Calico's always been the observant type, always calculating and thinking. He doesn't give himself time to daydream—never wants to—and Chambray finds it absolutely _extraordinary_ how he does it all the time. It's like his brain is some kind of unstopping machine, constantly making connections and revisions that need to be written down for future reference.

Chambray chews at her lip. If only he could see tailoring the same way he sees flowers and chemicals. He hates the job with a passion—complains at the warehouse just how much living here has ruined clothing for him—but Chambray will be damned if he isn't one of the best in their family. The best in the family, and his heart isn't even in it. She can't even imagine how much he'd accomplish if he found some form of joy in the job.

He lets out a low groan as he sniffs at the blend again. His lip is curled up in a sneer, the short charcoal pencil poking at his chin rhythmically. He's hit a wall, she thinks.

"What's wrong?" she asks. Calico rubs at his brow.

"There's something missing," he mutters. "I smell rose and hibiscus. Dried tea leaves as well, naturally. But none of them can…" He trails off, an almost faraway look in his eye.

"Callie?"

"Those alone don't alleviate pain."

Her eyes bulge wide at the statement. "What do you mean?"

"The tea—it's like a painkiller, I think. By now I'd still be feeling a little pain in my ankle, even with the ice, but there's nothing. As soon as I drank the tea, it stopped hurting. But I can't place what ingredient would do that."

Chambray glances between the kitchen doorway and Calico's cup. A feeling of dread knots up in her stomach, making her wish she hadn't eaten that sickly cookie. "You don't think… Do you think they soak it in morphling or something?"

Her voice comes out almost like a whisper, but Calico doesn't even bother to lower his own voice. "No. Morphling is supposed to have a distinct taste when it's ingested—like the taste of spirits." He flips through the pages of his journal, until he finds a small entry about medicinal herbs. "I haven't tasted any of these, but I think one of them might be sweet enough to sit with the rest of the ingredients. What do you think?"

Honestly, it's all too nerve wracking for Chambray to think about. "I hope it's just some kind of herb," she mumbles. Calico shrugs.

"Probably is. I just need to figure out what—it'd be helpful to have the recipe for Mom and Dad."

Chambray shoves the rest of the cookie into her mouth, hoping to muffle any attempt at voicing concern. She just hopes that whatever is in that tea blend, it won't be something that'll get Calico in trouble for wanting.

* * *

Calico stops her when they're in line for the Reaping, waiting to be identified. He puts a hand reluctantly on her shoulder and says, "The choker's coming loose."

Chambray gasps softly, immediately flapping her arms about. "Fix it!" she hisses. "Fix it!"

He lets out a small snort of a laugh. She can feel the lace choker tighten a little, the amount of seconds it takes to fix making her grimace. It must've been barely dangling by its ribbons, ready to fall off at any second. Organza would have a fit if Chambray lost it on her way to a Reaping, of all things.

Calico taps her on the shoulder again when he's done, just as Chambray is called over for identification. Her finger is pricked, her name read out, and then she's guided over to the seventeens section. There's already so many children here, nervously chattering amongst themselves as they wait for the last of the teens to line up. Chambray is almost certain she's the last of the seventeens girls to arrive, the section looking ready to burst with how tightly compacted all of the girls are.

She fiddles with her dress somewhat as she makes her way over; it's one of her favourites, featuring both her and Calico's namesakes that never fails to make her beam proudly. Varying blues to match the twins' eyes, with just enough ruffles around the shoulders and chest to make Chambray feel absolutely adorable.

She sees Calico walking by to his own section just as she settles in, and can't help staring at his feet as he makes his way into the lines. Ever since consuming that tea, he's had no sign of a limp outside of a reluctance to press too much weight onto the injured foot. Had Chambray not been there when he'd taken the tumble, she'd never guess that Calico had rolled his ankle. He catches her eye and nods in greeting, prompting her to nod back. Their sections look to already be full by now, meaning it won't be too long before the escort takes the stage.

As the hands of the Justice Building's clock move to 12:30, the familiar face of Greve takes centrestage. Clad in her signature studded clothing and almost punk-like style, complete with her green hair styled in the shape of a bow, she looks every bit ready to talk about how this generation isn't a great as the ones during the first President Snow's time in power.

Behind Greve are the officials—the mayor, assistants—and just at the end of the row of seats resides Charlotte and Taffeta. Zephyr sits quietly on Taffeta's lap, nibbling on a cookie as his mothers wait patiently for Greve to finish her opening speech. From where Chambray stands, she can see Charlotte's dress properly; it looks absolutely stunning on her, making her look even more regal and awe-inspiring than she already is.

The loud thump of the Reaping Ball gains everyone's attention, including Greve's. As she dips her hand into the Ball, she boldly declares that no Tribute this year will be as good as the ones from the 50th can't help the roll of her eyes and groan that escapes her. The paper shuffles loudly, Greve practically pulling herself into the Ball at this point. When she emerges, there's two slips of paper stuck together—one of which cracks open as she shakes the other back into the bowl.

Greve pouts and complains about the paper under her breath. It's heard as clear as day through the microphone, but the woman continues to act as though only she had heard it. She clears her throat daintily as she leans into the microphone, and with a voice painfully clear to all she announces, "Chambray Hemingway."

In all her life, working in the factories and fearing mistakes that would take her fingers or even her entire arm, Chambray's never trembled this hard. She's never looked to Calico with an almost pleading fear before today, and she's most certainly never been looked back to by him with equal amounts of fear and panic. Her legs feel like jelly as she makes her way up onto the stage, not a single soul volunteering for her. Greve makes some sort of comment about how underwhelming Chambray looks—she's long since tuned out, too focused on listening for a volunteer. All she's dimly aware of as the Reaping comes to a close is Taffeta bringing her into a hug and patting her head, almost like a mother would her sobbing child.

She's back to her senses in the Justice Building, sitting patiently on a leather chair and watching the door like a hawke. She tugs at the small pearl dangling from the choker, careful not to rip it off entirely. A few minutes have already passed, anxiety welling in her chest at the idea of her family not coming to say goodbye. She feels almost lonely, for the first time in her life—like she's been abandoned in her time of need.

And then the walking source of comfort that is Calico Hemingway bursts into the room, out of breath and slamming the door shut behind him. He's on his own, no sign of Organza and Poplin behind him, and there's a fire in his eyes.

"Where's—" Chambray barely gets any time to finish her sentence. Calico just tackles her into a hug, the most physically affectionate action he can take with anyone.

"Dad passed out from shock," Calico says all at once. "Mom's taking him to the hospital. They begged me to come and I couldn't leave you—"

Chambray starts to shake again. She clings back to Calico, the anxiety only getting worse as she claws at his shirt like a lifeline. "Callie, I'm scared," she whimpers.

He pulls away from her—she panics as the warmth of him leaves her so suddenly—only to place a hand on either side of her face and stare at her with an unwavering determination.

"You're strong," he says. His voice isn't shaking like hers, isn't filled with doubt. "I know you're going to be okay, Cham. _We_ will be okay. Trust me."

As she stares back at him, finally at her tipping point, Chambray feels something she's never felt towards Calico before.

Doubt.

* * *

 **And with that we have eight tributes established. I think we're making good progress! This chapter's Quell Question is a bit simpler than the last, so don't worry about having to come up with some kind of pun again lmao**

 **QQ #3:** If you could hold a job in District 8, what would it be?

 **For those interested as well, the ending of D7's chapter has been edited a bit to feel a bit better paced - it's not much of a change of events, but a bit easier to process pace-wise.**

 **All that said, I'll see you all next time in District 9! We're almost at the mentor introductions and Capitol Reapings!**


	10. The Sound of Silence

**It took a while, but we're in District 9! Hope this was worth the wait, and if not then I hope the next chapter comes a bit quicker**

 **This character was sent by** Wetstar **! I hope I did right by her!**

* * *

 **09 - The Sound of Silence**

By now Bel knows she should be getting ready for the Reaping. This year especially, given how everything's been sped up to accommodate the Quell. But she just wants a little more time to frolic and roll around through the fields, to feel the ground beneath her toes. It's a lovely sensation, the way the grass tickles at her skin. Bel wishes it could never end.

This is what she does most days of the week. Her family has a large farming property, all of it covered in wheat fields and farming machinery, and it's fairly easy for anyone to get lost as they roll through the tall crops. Well, easy for Bel at least. The amount of trees on the outskirts of the property and the pretty flowers that grow in clusters beside them just adds to the allure for her, makes her want to spend time all the more eagerly outside. When Bel's not at school or sweeping out silos, it's safe to assume she's out in the elements and admiring flowers she's yet to press.

When she stands up and peeks above the wheat to see how far she's wandered, Bel can't help noticing the grass stains on her hands and over her skirt, ruining the pink fabric and leaving a gross green smear over her front. Bel gasps and clasps her hands over her mouth. Her mother had wanted her to wear it to the Reaping today, and now it's ruined.

Bel shrugs. It's not like this is her only nice skirt. But the lecture when she gets home—be it before or after the Reaping—will certainly wear her out before dinner.

There's no point in worrying over it now, she thinks with a smile. Bel really wasn't going to go as far as the trees beyond their property, but now that she doesn't have to keep her clothes clean she may as well. Pansy will get over it eventually, though Bel will admit she isn't looking forward to the talk they'll have about how important it is to keep her good clothes clean.

With a grin on her face, she rolls up the sleeves of her shirt and lifts the hem of her skirt to her knees.

Running through the wheat field always makes her feel like a daring adventurer. The dirt and mud between her toes and the bushy ends of each stalk batting against her face—it's like she's running through a dream, surrounded by gold threads reaching for the sky. Her feet always leave the lightest of indents against the soft earth, her long curls always picking up bits and pieces of wheat and grains as she breezes past.

She loves home, she thinks as she nears the edge of the wheat field. The trees surrounding come into view, the flowers just barely visible through the shifting fields. Bel may not be allowed to venture far on her own, or go many places until she's older, but what she has now is beautiful. Going hungry some nights— _most nights_ , really—doesn't concern her as much as it should at times; all it takes is a nice view and a fresh breeze against her face, and all her worries peel away.

As soon as Bel bursts through the field and out onto the hard, grassy earth lining their property, she makes a beeline for the nearest tree with low-hanging branches. As much as she hates the pain of tripping, falling onto her face, she loves climbing the trees near their property. She jumps up and clings to the lowest branch, struggling to pull herself up and fling her torso over. Bel grunts as she feels the bark dig in through her shirt, but she knows this is the only hard part. From here, climbing higher gets easier.

Once she swings one leg over, she stops for a breath. Pento advised against climbing so often with how little strength she has during the week, their underfed diets apparently dangerous for them to attempt anything too strenuous. Bel knows she should be more careful, but she can't help it. This is her element, where she feels at home—and she knows Pento can relate somewhat.

As soon as the dull ache in her hands fades, Bel begins to push herself up again. The leaves brush against her face and hands as she ascends. One level at a time, the view of the entire wheat field enters her sight. Bel smiles down at the property, at the grains swishing and swaying like waves in water. She wiggles carefully onto the branch above her and makes sure her skirt doesn't get caught on any twigs. At last, she can admire her home from afar in peace.

The air smells beautiful, she thinks as she breathes in deeply. The sweet scent of the trees, the earthy smell of the wheat fields. She'll never grow tired of it, no matter how long she lives here. Bel leans against the trunk of the tree and swings her legs about, kicking at her skirt and smiling softly to herself. This feels so peaceful, she might just be able to forget for awhile that she has to attend a Reaping.

The smooth waves of the wheat part somewhat, a telltale sign of someone walking through. Bel squints down at the field, leaning forward somewhat to see who it could be. The wheat is tall, but even the top of someone's head should be easy enough to see from this height. The field is at its highest in the middle, but it's towards the edge of the property that some of them struggle to grow. It's through the transition of tall stalks to budding grains that she sees just who's approaching, and Bel can't help the wide grin that breaks out on her face at the sight of the duo.

Pento had left earlier this morning to run some errands, and she'd assumed he wouldn't be back until later. But her brother, equally excited to see her once their gazes meet, has proven her otherwise. Behind him is his best friend, Gimmick. Bel can't stop the squeak that tears out of her throat, the branch swaying as she throws her arms up in the air to wave to him.

Gimmick cups his hands around his mouth and shouts a greeting to her. There's a big smile on his face, bright and warm, and it's a sight like this that reminds Bel just why she's so attached to the duo. Pento never acts like he doesn't want to spend time with her, always ecstatic to share how his day is and hunt for flowers with her; Gimmick does his best to learn the things that Bel and Pento have grown up with, and his sense of humour is everything Bel loves in a friend.

She starts to stand up, reading to climb down the branch and meet them. Pento's just emerging entirely from the wheat, Gimmick behind him, when he stops completely. Bel doesn't notice at first, her gaze trained on her feet, but when she glances over at them again to see where they're heading alarm bells go off in her head.

Pento's halted Gimmick in his tracks, fear written all over his face as he watches the area beyond Bel's tree. His gaze is flitting about almost in a panic before it finally rests back on Bel. She's never seen him look so scared. He raises his hands with his index fingers pointed upwards, and then wipes them downwards and adjusts his fingers to touch his thumbs.

Bel's breath hitches in her throat. Why does she need to be quiet? Is there something she didn't see when she first came to the tree? Her legs start to shake, suddenly all too aware of just how skinny and frail she is compared to whatever's on the floor of the woods. She clings to the tree like it's a lifeline and slowly brings a hand over her mouth, clamping it tightly over the top as she glances left and right for a sign of danger.

Gimmick, heroic as he is, immediately jumps into action. She watches with a stunned expression as he dives into the woods and barrells past Bel's tree. She loses track of him quickly, and Pento is quick to run over to her as the taller boy vanishes entirely from their sights. He holds his hands up, signalling for her to jump down into his arms, and Bel wastes no time complying. Her skirt catches on the branch as she carefully drops down to him—a long, torn apart piece is left behind for the tree to keep.

Hands are on her face, checking her to see if she's okay. Bel tries to shoo away Pento's concerned prodding, waving about her index finger as she stares up at him questioningly. Pento glances warily between her and the direction Gimmick had sprinted off in. She's never seen him look so horrified, even as he hooks his finger in front of his chin and then presses his hand to his chest.

Before Bel can even question _who_ has entered the property, Pento jumps in surprise. He shoves Bel behind him, leaving her with very little to go by as her sight is covered by the back of his faded shirt. She tries to peek under his arm, to see what's happening, but only manages to catch sight of Gimmick rolling on the ground in what looks to be agony as someone else emerges from the bushes. Pento charges forward, fists raised as he runs for Gimmick. The stranger doesn't even waste any time dealing with Pento, either.

She can only watch as a foot rises towards Pento's head. He snaps down to the ground, crumpling up like a dried leaf, as Gimmick drags himself toward Pento. Bel is left face-to-face with the stranger, her legs shaking furiously and her breaths getting caught in her throat.

The stranger can't be much older than her—Gimmick and Pento's age, she thinks. Definitely not an adult, but the way she stalks over to Bel like some kind of predator makes her think of a Peacekeeper's march during a patrol. The way her light brown eyes focus on Bel, the expression on her face—it's not gleeful, but it's certainly not angry either. It's like the girl is on autopilot, acting on instinct as she advances on Bel. Bel can't help staring at the scars littering her olive skin, at the amount of mishaps that must have caused them.

Just as Pento's back on his feet, the stranger turns on her heel and snatches at him by the collar of his shirt. For a second Bel thinks she's going to say something to him, her head close to Pento's like she wants to whisper a secret—but then her forehead slams hard onto his own, knocking the poor boy out cold.

Bel can feel the screech come out of his throat as she watches her brother fall to the ground limply. Gimmick is now crawling to Pento, swiping at the stranger in an attempt to get her away from Pento. The stranger complies almost immediately, her attention drawn back to Bel as she begins to stalk after her again. Bel wants to cry as she looks from Pento to the stranger. She's scared of what the stranger has in mind for her, and just _why_ she'd attack the three of them so suddenly. They're all still on the Belfast property—what does the stranger need to be violent for?

A strong hand swipes out at Bel, catching her by the jaw. The stranger begins to lift her, fingers pushing at her teeth until Bel has no choice but to open her mouth wide. Her toes scuff against the ground as tears start to leak from the corners of her eyes—

And then the stranger sets her down roughly. Looks down at her almost in a friendly way.

"Sorry about that." Bel watches her mouth, but her fear stops her from actually processing the words entirely. "Thought your friends were hiding an Avox from me. Honest mistake."

Breathing is difficult, but manageable. Bel's entire body is shaking as the girl pats her on the shoulder and waves to Gimmick. She no longer looks like a predator; it's like in the span of seconds, her entire personality changed into one Bel's so familiar with in Gimmick. Warm, joking, expressive.

The girl makes quick work of leaving the scene. She practically leaps over Gimmick's crouching form above Pento, disappearing into the bushes just as quickly as she had emerged from them. Bel watches in shock and awe as the leaves still and Gimmick slowly begins to rise to his feet. The encounter had barely lasted more than two, maybe three minutes, but Bel feels like she's just been put through hours of unrelenting horror. Her knees give out, leaving her to sit on the soft earth as she watches Gimmick lift Pento to his feet with ease.

* * *

Pansy Belfast is the most anxious Bel's ever seen her when Gimmick helps her and Pento home. While Trond is busy interrogating Gimmick and waits for his son to come to, Bel is dragged to the bathroom as all of the colour drains from Pansy's face. She supposes the help is appreciated as Pansy strips her down and helps her into the tub—already filled with warm water, almost as though Pansy knew Bel would ruin her clothes before the Reaping—but the way Pansy clings to her feels almost desperate.

She's never seen her mother go on a rant before, and even now she doesn't see all of it as Pansy scrubs at Bel's hair. Locks will fall on her face or soap will get in her eyes, leaving Bel with only a string of words that only barely pieces things together. "I begged—Why must she—Isaiah knows how bad—"

By the time Bel's being helped out of the tub, Pansy's rant is over. She inspects Bel's legs and arms for injuries, relief ever so slowly making it back into her expression before finally she brings her frail daughter into a tight hug. The feeling of Pansy's heartbeat is reassuring. Bel closes her eyes for just a moment and focuses on it, until finally she's led out of the bathroom and toward her and her brother's room.

As Bel puts on a new set of clothes under Pansy's careful watch, Pansy inspects the damage on the skirt with her brows knitted together. Bel can't imagine how upset Pansy must be, seeing one of Bel's few good skirts stained and torn. At least it was just Bel's skirt that was destroyed, with no major harm comign to Bel herself.

She can see her mother's shoulders rise with a sigh. Bel's never been the best with reading her parents—they're good at hiding things, often to the point of Bel being complacent with not being as involved with other kids her age—but she knows when she can try to lighten the mood for both of them. Pansy and Bel have had scares of their own today, evidence left behind by the ruined skirt. Maybe Bel can bring their attention to the new one she wears.

She swishes the brown skirt back and forth, smiling down at it. It goes nicely with the white blouse she has on, and the little pink birds on the blouse are her favourite thing about it all. When she catches Pansy's eye during her display, Bel grins at her. She brings her index and middle fingers to her eye, and then points toward Pansy; immediately after, she strokes along her jaw with her thumb and index finger.

Pansy smiles back at her. She sets the skirt down on the desk and looks to her daughter almost fondly. Pansy raises her hand to her face, middle and ring fingers tucked against her palm, and taps her nose once with her index finger; once she tucks away the index finger and thrusts the remaining digits in Bel's direction, all tension in the air feels as though it'll melt away.

Pansy dries Bel's hair and fixes it up, making sure the curls don't get tangled. Her mother's fingers carding through her hair feels nice, like the days where Bel would fall asleep on her lap while Pansy read the newspaper. It's safe. It's reassuring.

But it also leaves Bel to her thoughts. Despite how hard she'd tried to get both her and Pansy's minds off of the attack, Bel's just keeps wandering back to that moment. The split second between the girl's face changing, to the apology about mistaking Bel for an Avox. She doesn't know a whole lot about them—she's never really met one, either—but she can't imagine why people would hate them so much.

She reaches over her shoulder for Pansy's hand. She brushes the woman's wrist softly, and then she's turning in her seat to face her. All she can hope for is a straight answer. After all, she doesn't even know _what makes an Avox_.

When Bel asks this, Pansy's hands shake too much for her to sign back. Bel watches her lips attentively, hanging on every word like they're vital instructions. "Avoxes… They're not good people, Oryza."

Bel tilts her head to the side. She waits patiently for Pansy to continue. "They did bad things in the Capitol," Pansy clarifies. "Very bad things. They get punished by having their… ability to talk taken away."

 _What kind of bad things?_

Pansy hesitates. "Things I don't want you knowing about just yet, dear."

 _Are they deaf like me?_

"No. No, they're just mute." Pansy's shoulders rise and fall into a sigh. "They sign like you do, though."

 _What's wrong with their mouths?_

Her mother stares at her in horror. "What do you mean?"

 _The girl who attacked us stopped when she saw inside my mouth_.

Another sigh. Heavier, from the looks of it. Bel can't help reaching for her mother's hand and giving it a light squeeze.

"The Capitol… Well, they don't have tongues anymore. That's what makes them Avoxes." Pansy's lip quivers. "The girl thought you were an Avox, dear. That's probably why she attacked you and your brother."

Bel stares at her in disbelief. She's never done anything bad, has she? Sure, maybe she was late to work a few times and even got in trouble because someone forgot she couldn't hear them, but that can't be bad enough to be mistaken for an Avox. Could it?

Bel doesn't want to lose her tongue if being late for work more than a few times is considered bad to the Capitol. It'd be so painful!

Pansy tries to smile at her, giving Bel's hand a squeeze before she stands up from her seat. As Bel looks up at her, Pansy says to her, "I think I heard someone at the door. Why don't you check on Pento while I look?"

She isn't really given much time to respond. Pansy practically flees the room, leaving Bel to her own thoughts and the decision to check on Pento or not. Bel just sits on the chair Pansy had occupied, feeling lost now that she has this information. If Bel could be mistaken for an Avox so easily, why keep something like that from her? Is this why some people in town disrespect her whenever she tries to strike up conversation? Is this why Bel's been called names and Gimmick's been forced to step in for her sake?

Bel chews her lip as she glances at the door. Maybe she should save the concerns and questions for later. As much as she knows that Pansy's statement was an attempt at a getaway, Pento really does need to be checked on. Gimmick, too. Bel had only been grabbed roughly and dropped in the same manner—she can't imagine how much pain the two boys must be in now.

She sneaks down the hall and peeks into her parents' room. Laying on the bed, a wet cloth on his forehead, is Pento, while sitting beside him like a concerned mother is Gimmick. Bel can't help watching them for a few seconds, feeling almost guilty for the damage they'd received. If Bel hadn't been there, would that girl have attacked? Would Pento be unconscious and Gimmick with his hands bandaged up?

She watches as Gimmick reaches out a hand to Pento, almost hesitant as it hovers over her brother's. Pento doesn't stir, but at least he looks to be breathing fine. Just as Gimmick is about to take Pento's hand, he freezes and whips his head around to the door. Bel can feel her face heat up as they make eye contact. She must have stepped on a creaky part of the floor—Pento always points out how easy it is to hear her coming because of them.

Gimmick grins weakly at her. Bel smiles back. "You're holding up okay?" he asks.

Bel nods. She points to his hands simply, the question obvious even to the most clueless of people. Gimmick glances down at the dirty wraps and quickly hides his hands behind his back. His grin falls as he replies, "Your dad thinks I sprained them or something. They hurt when I move the fingers, so I can't really…"

She steps further into the room. It's been a while since Bel's actually spoken out loud, but she likes to think it comes out coherent enough when she says to him, "That's fine."

Gimmick looks to her with surprise. "You don't have to—"

"I don't mind."

Now Gimmick's looking at her like _he's_ the guilty one. No doubt Pento's drilled it into Gimmick's head by now just how much Bel feels uncomfortable talking out loud. But she finds it unfair that Gimmick can't sign back at her—he always managed to keep up with the conversation if he could gesture just as she does, relying on the movements to remind him rather than his own memory.

She sits on the edge of her parents' bed, right by Pento's legs, and smiles reassuringly at him. "Thanks for the help," she adds.

His shoulders rise and fall—but it's not a sigh. The bitter grin on his face, the reluctance to look in her eye. A scoff? "Didn't help much. She was stronger than she looked."

"It was brave."

He smiles at her then, this time without any disdain for himself or doubt. "Thanks, Bel."

Her heart flutters ever so slightly. Gimmick always has a nice smile, and she won't deny that she falls back into her crushes on him so easily when he looks at her like that. But Bel doesn't want to take away the friendship they have right now, especially when she toes the line between platonic and romantic affections so frequently. She's seen hints that Gimmick may have eyes for someone else, too—she doesn't want to step on his toes and make the both of them feel guilty for her puppy crushes. For now, she just wants everyone to be happy.

She beams back at him just as Pento stirs from his sleep, glancing between his sister and friend groggily. Pento makes quick work of changing the subject, joking about Bel and Gimmick gossiping about him while he was out cold. All concerns about the girl simply vanish. Right now it's simply three friends spending time together before a Reaping, sharing laughs and smiles.

* * *

The man keeps covering his mouth when he speaks to her. Bel can't help the worried shake of her hands as he continues to give her expectant looks, becoming increasingly annoyed with each failure to respond. Someone behind her gives her a shove. Bel lets out a small whimper as she continues to stare at the man.

Finally, he removes his mouth and says, "What are you, deaf? Oryza Belfast."

She inhales shakily. Bel raises her right fist and nods it twice in the man's direction. Almost immediately he flushes red, though she can't quite tell if it's embarrassment or anger. Now that she knows people mistake her for an Avox, it's hard to see if they realise she actually is deaf or not.

He directs her to the fifteens section. The parting look on his face is not warm by any stretch, and the kids who turn to look back at her as they settle in their own lines give her the same expression. It feels almost… _isolating_. Bel never knew anyone very well to begin with, but the way they treat her feels antagonising and wrong. She's being treated like an outsider in her own home.

She doesn't see the foot poke out from the fourteens section straight away. When she does, though, she's already tripping over it and falling face-first into the dirt. Her hands scrape against a few stones painfully, the skin tearing and burning within seconds; Bel isn't sure if she makes any sounds upon falling, too focused on the pain in her knees, hands and chin.

When she looks over her shoulder at the teen who'd tripped her, all she sees is a crowd of proud grins and approving pats on the shoulder. The isolated feeling gets worse and worse, the heat of tears in her eyes undeniable now. Bel sniffs and weakly pushes herself back to her feet—someone knocks into her from behind, albeit gently enough that she doesn't fall again—before finishing the trek to the fifteens section.

Everyone stays a good half foot away from her when she enters her line. No one even looks at her or touches her. By this point the tears won't stay put, and her chin stings each time they pool under her jaw. While they all wait for the escort to come onstage, Bel inspects her hands and delicately removes any stones left embedded in her palms.

By the time she finishes, the escort is already onstage. She doesn't recognise the woman, who stands proudly onstage in her skin-tight dress. Bel can only watch in awe, taking in her appearance with envy. The woman is so plump and beautiful, her dark skin clear and free of any blemishes as the curve of her hips attracts even the attention of the mayor. A healthy, round face and large, soft arms. Bel's always known that Capitolites are beautiful, but she's never seen one she wishes could be her so, _so_ much. To never starve, to be the centre of desire.

The escort is absolutely gorgeous. And Bel feels almost relieved that she represents District 9's Tributes this year.

All she gets from the escort is the name Madrona before her brightly painted lips disappear behind the microphone. Bel wipes at her face with the backs of her hands. There's no point in watching the stage like a hawk if she can't see what Madrona is saying. So instead she looks around for Pento and Gimmick, scanning the backs of heads in the seventeens section for them.

When she spots Pento's wild, curly hair, she immediately knows the person he's leaning on is Gimmick. From behind it looks like Pento is struggling to stand on his own—which wouldn't be surprising, since Trond had said that Pento's balance had taken a blow before they'd left. Gimmick looks to have his arm securely around Pento's waist, holding him steady as Pento clings to his shoulder.

Bel smiles. She's glad that Gimmick is helping Pento remain present for the Reaping. Pansy had been so worried about a supposed punishment if Pento couldn't go today; and while Bel still can't quite figure out what that punishment would be, she's glad Pento won't have to go through it anyway.

The girls around her start clapping their hands. Bel immediately claps her own once, winces, before smacking at air as she waits for everyone else's movements to cease. Madrona must have introduced the mentor, or deferred to the mayor for the Treaty of Treason. Once the other girls stop moving, so does Bel. She doesn't look up to the stage, though; instead she focuses on blowing gently at her palms, waiting for the pain to subside.

She hates pain. It always makes her feel sad, helpless. Even useless at times. She hates it the most when her hands get hurt, though—unlike Gimmick, who's comfortable with speaking if he can't sign, Bel feels _wrong_ when she has to use her voice to make a full sentence. She can manage a single word, maybe, but never an entire sentence.

More movement, this time shuffling. She still doesn't bother to look up, instead combing her fingers through her hair in the hopes that any rocks didn't get caught in it. As she gets closer and closer to the back of her head, she feels something brush against her neck lightly. Bel shivers, surprised, and makes delicate work of untangling the item from her hair.

A leaf. A dried, orange leaf with the stem still miraculously attached. Bel gawks at it. How long has it been tangled there? It looks like it came from one of the trees back home, but she can't imagine why Pento and Gimmick wouldn't tell her about it. She twirls it with her fingers, smiling just a little. Maybe it'll give her something to focus on instead of the pain in her hands, she thinks.

The girls shift around more, this time distancing themselves from her further. Bel looks up in surprise, wondering what she may have done to anger them. It couldn't be the leaf, could it? Those are everywhere on the streets.

When the Peacekeeper breaks through the line, though, Bel's stomach drops along with her smile.

The one that grabs her just hauls her over his shoulder. She starts to cry again, sobbing this time as she throws her hands against his back in an attempt to be let down. The girls all watch her with smirks, almost happy that she's leaving. Bel hates being the subject of so much disgust and wrath. She doesn't want to be taken away from her family while everyone watches smugly after her.

Just as she's thrown onto the stage, Bel shrieks, " _Mama_!"

She doesn't see the reactions of the fifteens section. Her tears are too hard to see through to even see who the mentor is, or even to look to Madrona for reassurance. Bel shakes and hiccups, sitting on the stage floor as she weakly clutches the leaf with both hands. She doesn't want to go away. She doesn't want to go to the Capitol on her own. What if everyone treats her worse than they already do here, in her own home?

A pair of strong arms loop around her waist, lifting her with ease and carrying her into the Justice Building. The Reaping must be over. No one volunteered for her—not even after finding out she isn't what they hated her for being. The light from outside fades, the doors shutting behind her. She's placed delicately into a chair, spun around to face the one who assisted her—

The sobs only grow in intensity as she recognises the girl who attacked them.

The girl just smirks at her, an almost devious look in her eye as she examines Bel. Her hands hold Bel's face steady, almost unaware of the warm tears coating them.

With a sly smirk, the girl says, "Fate is a funny little thing, isn't it?"

It takes everything in Bel's power not the crush the leaf in her hands. She's never trembled so hard in her life, and even now she can see just why Pansy wanted her sheltered for all these years.

The world is cruel, and Bel is most certainly not ready to face it.

* * *

 **And there we have it! To clarify for those who are a little confused and expected ASL, Bel is using Auslan instead simply because it's much more familiar to me than ASL.**

 **That's D9 done. We're just a few more chapters away from the Capitol Reapings, and then it's Games time! While we wait, here's the Quell Question for this chapter:**

 **QQ #4:** How do you feel about Avoxes being sent to replace every ten deceased from D11 and D12?

 **I'll see you all in District 10, and I hope you enjoyed reading Bel!**


	11. To the Slaughter

**Alright, we're at District 10. Just two more to go before we hit the halfway mark for the Reapings!**

 **This character was sent in by** mukkou **! I hope you all enjoy!**

* * *

 **10 - To the Slaughter**

"Oh, you still have it! I'll take the last of the brisket."

" _Reaping day sale! Fifty percent off all beef cuts!_ "

"Can I get two of the tenderloins?"

"Mom, I want ham!"

"Ugh, fine. A handful of the ham too."

" _You heard right_ — _every piece of our fine cattle, fifty percent off! But only today!_ "

"Dad, do we have any shanks left in the back?"

"I'm sorry, ma'am, but we sold the last of it this morning. Can I interest you in the barbeque-marinated ribs?"

"I'm sorry, everyone, but the T-bones are officially sold out! If you're desperate, Tanner's Family Butchers across town may have what you need!"

"Gosh, it sure is busy in here. How do you keep up with it all, Octavia?"

She wraps the pork cutlets tightly in the paper and slides it over to the old woman and her grandchildren. She almost doesn't hear the younger voice talking to her, let alone notice the stationary teen amongst the flitting adults. The old woman hands money back to Octavia, leaves with her grandchildren, and another woman steps up.

Octavia is always busy on Reaping day. Every year they hold a sale to draw in customers, hoping to keep up payments with everything they earn in that one day. What mystery meat will be half-price this year? What will the Faye family surprise everyone this side of District 10 with next year? By now it's like clockwork, right down to the well-practiced actions of wrapping, grabbing, and charging that Octavia and her father have had to hone.

She grabs a tightly-wrapped pound of ground beef and shoves it into a bag, waiting for the woman to bark out more orders. Five marinated drumsticks, a very _expensive_ serving of calamari, pork mignon, two large bottles of milk. It's the biggest order of the day, definitely the most money Octavia's made so far. With a very limited supply of imported goods like calamari from District 4, paying extra just for a handful is a given.

The crowd starts to thin out a bit. It's much easier to notice the individual people standing before the glass, browsing the meat with furrowed brows. The teen who'd spoken to Octavia earlier, going ignored through the rush of the crowd, is finally visible to the teen as she slides a bag of chicken necks to a man wanting snacks for his herding dog.

The brown-eyed girl waves meekly to her, her colourful bracelets swishing lightly around her wrist. Octavia does her best not to look displeased by her presence—at the very least she looks bored from the day's work.

"How can I help you, Camelia?" Octavia says in a practised tone. Camelia simply smiles shyly at her, doe eyes flickering between Octavia and the shelf behind her.

"My parents gave me a list of things we need," she explains. "I think you've run out of a few though."

Octavia purses her lips. As Camelia slides a small list across the counter to her, Octavia's father shuffles past in an attempt to refill the sausage container. "I'll see what we have," Octavia sighs. While she reaches behind her for a carton of eggs, she adds, "Tanner's Family Butchers might have some of these in stock."

"I see." Camelia's smile takes an embarrassed turn. "We'll just have to make do with what you have here. Tanner's is too far from home."

Octavia just shrugs at her. It's a short list with a hefty amount of each item required, but it looks doable. If anything, it'll help to keep Adolphe busy by keeping the store stocked as best he can. He's always been better at operating the meat grinder, anyway.

She hands the list to Adolphe wordlessly, and immediately her father rushes back to the cold room. There must be just enough left with how fast he moves, leaving Octavia to gather the tenderloins and jerky on her own. Camelia watches with an almost intrigued gaze, taking in every movement Octavia makes.

Another woman enters—a regular, Dianne Atreus—just as Adolphe starts to wrap the first of the order. He disappears into the cold room once again, leaving Octavia to deal with other customers. She leaves Camelia standing on her own as she waves down Dianne to serve her.

Despite being a well-known vegetarian in this part of town, Dianne Atreus still supports her local butchers by buying some of their other goods. Every week she buys a combination of cow and goat milk, plus a half-dozen eggs from the endless supply behind Octavia. This week is no different, especially if the cow's milk is half-price.

She reaches into a box with a gloved hand, barely paying attention to what she grabs as she waits for Dianne to start with her order. Camelia squeaks, stopping Dianne before she can even speak, and hurriedly warns Octavia, "That's the seafood mix, not the marinated skewers."

Octavia jumps slightly, startled by the warning. True to Camelia's word, she'd just stuck her hand into the wrong box. Octavia sneers and pulls her hand out, quickly removing her gloves and searching under the bench for a new pair.

"It really pays to be observant of your surroundings, Octavia," Camelia sighs. Octavia can't help giving her the stink eye as she stands back up to her full height, snapping the gloves on with an annoyed curl of her lip. She really doesn't need the lecture about being alert at all times from a fourteen-year-old.

"So it would seem," she grates out. She pulls out a few of the skewers, wrapping them tightly in the paper and sliding it down the counter. It bumps into the two already packed meats Camelia has yet to collect.

After no one says anything for another few seconds, Dianne finally steps closer to place her order. She browses the meat available as she says, "Just my usual, Miss Faye. I'll take some pork rind, too—just a small handful."

With a single nod, Octavia moves to collect the items. Four bottles of milk sit at the counter, and it's not long before the eggs join them. The pork rinds are easy enough to sift through, being a new addition to the list of items available at Faye Butchers. Adolphe had had the genius idea of deep frying the leftover pork rinds that weren't big enough to stay on the pork itself and then advertising them as an "on the go" snack. Some people seem to like it a lot, including Dianne's nephew.

Dianne is still scanning the various meats—focusing particularly hard on the chicken breasts—as Camelia tucks her hands into her pockets patiently. "Have you ever tried spiders, Miss Faye?" Dianne says absentmindedly.

The woman always asks strange questions like this. Octavia's almost thankful for her habit of answering questions with questions, or else she'd probably be at a loss for words when answering.

"In this lifetime?" she throws back. Her tone is equally absent, willing to participate just as much as Dianne is.

The woman hums once. She runs a finger over the glass before tapping it twice over the chicken wings.

"Tastes remarkably close to chicken. The body is soft and delicate, like fish cooked properly." She sighs down at the meat. "Hard to enjoy such trivial pleasures again once you taste it."

Octavia doesn't need to know this. Though she's sure it'll gross out poor little Camelia—who looks appropriately appalled at the description.

"What about the legs?" Camelia says softly.

Dianne just looks at her once as she hands the money to Octavia. Without much else to say to the girl, she reaches into the bag of pork rinds and hands one to her. Camelia takes it hesitantly, bites into it with just as much uncertainty.

"Exactly like the crunch of pork rinds," Dianne answers.

Adolphe rushes back out of the cold room just as Camelia begins to choke on the pork rind, coughing and hacking with a horrified expression on her face. Dianne doesn't pay her much mind, simply nodding in greeting to the man as she walks out with her order. A few people standing around, still deciding what to order, try to help Camelia out and offer her drinks from their canteens. She accepts one graciously and takes careful sips.

While Dianne leaves she holds the door open for someone else to enter—someone Octavia doesn't mind seeing after all the rush, but still feels almost too exhausted to spend much time with. She supposes there's going to be no end to her customer service mode today.

Hugo is a nice boy. He's _nice_. Loyal, too, and he's there for her when she needs him. He's artistic and all, spoiling her as much as possible ever since they began dating ten months ago. But lately things have been… mediocre. Octavia was never big on the whole relationship thing—too much going on at home to fully invest her time in a partner—but even her own brother can see how uninvolved she is with Hugo compared to the boy's grand gestures. He holds her hand and gushes over how lucky he is that someone like Octavia agreed to date him, and she just watches the road ahead of her with a dull gaze.

That's all normal, though. Hugo's always been fine with her being emotionally distant—he understands how much she has to care for Adolphe on a good day. It's yesterday that has her doubting whether or not she wants to continue the relationship, especially with the subject of the Reaping happening for another year.

Camelia reaches for her bag as she clears her throat once more, face redder than some of the meat on display. Octavia watches with an easy smile as the girl leaves with watery eyes, taking an almost sick satisfaction in seeing the know-it-all's curiosity get the better of her. The door jingles after Camelia, and then Hugo is right in her point of view.

He's bristling. Watching after Camelia with a scrutinising gaze. It takes everything Octavia has in her not to sigh loudly and growl a warning.

Hugo is nice. Hugo is loyal. Hugo is _also_ jealous. Ever since she'd confided in him that she's bisexual, he's become almost _possessive_ of his relationship with her. He gets competitive every time she looks at another girl for more than two seconds, and even now when she addresses girls close to her age at her own work he becomes a green-eyed monster.

He looks to her with a pout. Octavia rolls her eyes, undoing her apron and pulling off her gloves. As Adolphe walks by her, she tells him, "I'm taking a five minute break. That okay with you?"

Her father nods with a smile. "Thanks for the help so far," he says softly.

There's barely a pause long enough for a breath to get in when she and Hugo enter the break room before Hugo blurts out, "That girl was pretty."

Here he goes again. "She's also fourteen," Octavia growls.

"Three years isn't a big gap," he defends.

Octavia glares at him. "Are you listening to yourself?"

He pouts again. It's like Hugo desperately wants her to reassure him that she only wants to date him—but after yesterday, half of her isn't so sure he deserves to be told someone so strong.

Hugo is nice. Hugo is loyal. But Hugo is also weak on an emotional level.

The first thing he'd said to her yesterday upon meeting up had been, "I won't volunteer if you're Reaped." Everything after was a great big defense about how he isn't as strong as Octavia, isn't as brave as Octavia—cower, flatter, repeat. She'd been furious yesterday, had considered breaking up with him on the spot for saying something so heartless, even by his standards. But she'd held back, convinced that she was just being impulsive and that she'd forgive him the next day.

Well. It's the next day. And Hugo hasn't done a lot to help his case.

"Are you…" He shifts on his feet nervously, rubbing his arm. "Are you still mad about what I said?"

She blinks up at him once. "I'm breaking up with you."

The silence only lasts for a second, but the slow journey of horror across his features and the visual comparison to an illusion shattering in his eyes makes it feel like much, much longer. Octavia just crosses her arms over her chest, waiting patiently as he begins to blubber and tear up.

Hugo is nice. Hugo is loyal. Hugo is _dense._

He doesn't understand why she'd want to break up with him over something he wasn't entirely set on, promises he can do better and that he'll volunteer today for her. Octavia just watches him with a dull expression—and it makes him panic even more. Is there something he did wrong? Is there a girl she likes more than him? Has he been too affectionate? Not affectionate enough? He's begging her to talk with him and make _them_ work.

So Octavia talks.

"You're too much on an emotional level," she starts. "Even my dad sees how uninterested I am in half of the dates we go on, and everyone around us thinks you've just made up us dating entirely. Your constant jealousy whenever I talk to girls my age is overbearing and makes me wish I'd stayed in the closet entirely instead of testing the waters with you. You're _spineless_. You're constantly craving my attention when my own family needs it more. The fact that you even insinuated that I'd be interested in someone a little over the age of twelve is disgusting—"

"Octavia, please, don't—"

"You're not right for _me_. We're done."

His mouth opens and closes repeatedly. Hugo's voice even begins to crack as he says, "You're not even gonna sugarcoat it? No 'it's not you, it's me'?"

"I'm not a liar, Hugo."

The most pitiful whine comes out of his throat. Hugo's not even bothering to stop himself from crying now, wiping at his face with the sleeves of his shirt.

As much as Octavia wants this to be an entirely spite-driven occasion, there is some pity behind her motives. Hugo is _emotionally weak_. She sees bits and pieces of what he could become in him, all leading back to the same things that caused her own dad to become a broken man relying on his daughter to see each day through. She wants this to be spiteful. But if Octavia is Reaped—and if she dies—as Hugo Boyer's girlfriend, he'll crumble. He'll be racked with guilt over letting her go if no one volunteers, and he'll constantly blame himself for her dying if she doesn't come back alive.

Better to have him blame himself for a dead relationship rather than a dead body, Octavia thinks.

He runs out with a red face and a loud sob. Octavia just watches as he crashes into customers, knocks over one of the kids standing by the display. He's out of the store like he wants to put as much distance between him and Octavia as possible, and she can't deny that the feeling is mutual.

She leans against the doorframe with a sigh. She knew it'd come to this one day, but she didn't think it'd be a day that gives her so many mixed emotions. She feels happy to be free of the constant jealousy and neediness, but it also hurts to let go of quite possibly the longest relationship she's ever had.

"Trouble in paradise?"

Octavia looks over her shoulder lazily. Victor is entering through the back door, a bundle of papers rolled up under his arm. He doesn't work at the shop like Octavia, instead following his own dreams—much like their mother before him.

"Broke up with him." She says it nonchalantly, but she knows Victor is going to be overjoyed by the news.

"Oh," he says, and it comes out so monotonously that even Adolphe would know Victor meant nothing of what he says next. "That must've been so hard for you. He was a great catch."

"Don't pretend you're not happy." Octavia nods to the papers. She slides the break room door shut behind her, walking towards her brother. "What's with the papers?"

He pulls one out and struggles to unfurl it. It takes a few tries, but soon enough Victor is flattening the poster out on the table and heaving out a sigh of his own.

It's a wanted poster—and a defaced one at that. Written in bold, neat letters is the phrase, " _WANTED. ISABELLE EULANE. Possibly seen in Districts 10, 11 and 12, last known sighting in District 10._ " Just below the name is a face, and it's one Octavia misses to this day.

Isabelle leaving had been what pushed Adolphe to the point he's at now. Losing his wife—his beloved wife, who he supported no matter what she desired—after raising two kids with her had been hard on him. A lot of her photos have been taken down from the house, but Octavia still remembers clearly what she looks like.

The image on the poster is supposed to be from her ID, back when Isabelle worked in one of District 10's factories. No smile, tired eyes, and a beautiful face that Octavia has no doubt Adolphe would still love after it became wrinkled and grey. That's all that should be on the poster, but someone's decided to play a sick joke and scribble things over her face.

One poster has her with devil horns and phallic shapes on her face. Another has the words " _traitor_ " and " _rebel slut_ " scrawled over her features. Octavia feels a pang of guilt at the sight of it. She may not have known Isabelle the best, but she knows enough to respect her for doing what she felt was _right_ —even if what was right meant leaving behind a family for the sake of countless others' lives.

"I got permission from the Head Peacekeeper to take down the graffitied ones. Sick bastards can't just leave a poster be," Victor growls.

"They're angry," Octavia sighs. She picks up one of the posters, staring at the phrase " _go back to District 12_ " written over Isabelle's forehead. "Mom was never from here in the first place, and her actions are coming back on the rest of us. They're mad at her for leaving everyone else in the dust."

"But she's coming back."

Victor tears up some of the posters and shoves them into the nearby bin. It's small, just barely deep enough to fit all of the posters. Octavia watches him silently, waits for the right time to slide the poster in her hands back to him.

As he takes it from her, he continues, "I'm gonna make sure she comes back. I'm old enough to leave without consequence, so long as I have a good reason to go wherever I want to. If they don't let me leave…"

"You'll do what Mom did."

He grins at her, almost sheepish. "Apple doesn't fall far from the tree, huh?"

Octavia smiles back at him. "You got her good traits, though," she reassures him.

"So did you." He shakes the bin before setting it a small distance away from the table and chairs. Octavia moves over to the window, jiggling it open with a grunt. It sits just a few inches open, a cool breeze hitting her arms before disappearing entirely. Victor digs around in his pocket for a matchbox; he lights three, throwing them all into the bin with an almost relieved smile. "We both got her best traits."

* * *

"Getting in some last minute training?" Adolphe is so silent when he asks this, Octavia almost doesn't hear him over her own ragged breaths.

She wipes at her brow and steps away from the slab of meat hanging from the ceiling. Octavia turns to face Adolphe, her father watching from the plastic flaps sealing off the cold room from the rest of the shop. In one hand is a flask, and Octavia has no doubts about what's in it.

"Missed it this morning with Victor," she wheezes. "Close up already?"

Adolphe nods. He walks further into the room, his breaths slowly turning into the same fog Octavia exhales. "Victor went out to deliver the last of the orders. Told me not to disturb you for something even he could do on his own."

She huffs out a short laugh. "That was nice of him."

Awkward silence. It lasts all of two minutes as Adolphe settles himself down on a bench, unscrewing the cap of the flask and taking a deep swig of its contents. Octavia just watches him while shifting on her feet. She can't quite tell if he's come to have a talk with her, or if he just wants to hang around and watch her practice her boxing. They don't look at each other—not entirely, at least—for just a few moments longer. Finally, after what feels like an eternity of waiting in cold, horrific silence, Adolphe extends the flask to her.

"Need a break?" he sighs.

Octavia takes it without hesitation. With all the stress of Reapings happening, she could use something other than a fleshy punching bag to take the edge off.

She groans at the warm taste the whiskey leaves in her throat, handing the flask back to Adolphe almost immediately. Normally she stays away from the stuff, even going so far as to keep Adolphe away from it all, but everyone has one compromise they're willing to make on Reaping day. Like Octavia's is letting the bad habit slide, Adolphe's is offering her to partake in it. He's always hated the idea of seeing his kids spiral down into the same depression he's been in the past few years. But at least he does his best to support his kids with what he has.

He takes another swig and coughs. Octavia pats his back as best she can, listening as the coughs become more clear and his breaths stop getting interrupted.

"Have I ever told you," he starts, only to stop as he clears his throat. "Have I ever told you kids how glad I am that you started all this?"

Adolphe gestures to the pig. Octavia feels all too aware of the wrist wraps she still has on, the dulling ache in her knuckles from her afternoon of training.

She just shrugs. "Have you ever needed to tell us?"

Adolphe grins at her. "As my role as a dad, I probably do need to. I really am happy, though." He takes another swig, this one longer than the other two. The flask must nearly be empty by now. "When Victor's name was pulled, I didn't know what I'd do. All I could think was that I'd lost one of the only pieces of Isabelle I had left, and there was nothing I could do to stop it."

She remembers that day clearly. Victor had been fifteen, Octavia thirteen, and his name had been the one pulled out to go with one of the Tanner daughters. Adolphe had been screaming, horrified and seemingly forgetting that Octavia was also in the crowd, and then it had all come to an abrupt stop when someone shouted two little words. Neither Octavia nor Victor knew Ahmeer Rayne personally—his family never once shopped at Faye Butchers, and as far as they knew he went to a different school than them—but this older boy had just taken Victor's place and spared his life.

Victor—headstrong, heartbroken Victor—had vowed upon Ahmeer's death to never let someone else die for him or Octavia after that. Octavia had been on board entirely, though it's hard to believe by this point that it's been four whole years since they'd started their training in the cold room. It feels longer, Ahmeer's brutal death an almost distant memory. She can't even remember a day where she hasn't picked a fight with a giant slab of meat, every day prior feeling like a dream rather than fact.

Octavia knows that Adolphe is relieved that the two of them are stronger. He doesn't need to say it out loud, not when the look in his eye is proof enough for them.

"Now look at you both," he says, and his breathing starts to quake. She can see the tears brimming at the corners of his eyes. "Victor's ready to explore and make a name for himself, and you…"

Octavia watches him eagerly.

"My baby girl could probably carry this old man around like livestock in a couple more years," he jokes. Octavia throws him a half-smile, a small chuckle at the mental image. "It just feels like you kids have grown up too fast, y'know?"

In Octavia's defense, she and Victor needed to if they were going to survive in a place like District 10. In Adolphe's defense, he'd needed Octavia and Victor to mature quickly after the pain of losing Isabelle left him unable to take care of even himself.

"I'm still only seventeen," she points out. "You've got plenty of time to keep treating me like your baby. Before I start demanding the adult treatment, that is."

He slings an arm over her shoulder and gives it a reassuring pat. Octavia leans against Adolphe, heaving out a sigh as the silence settles over them again.

"Are you going to be okay today?" Adolphe asks after a while.

Octavia shrugs. "I'm not worried."

 _Except she is worried. She always worries. Not a day goes by in this damn country without her being worried_.

"What about you?" she asks.

"I'm a little worried. We've had to take a lot of tesserae under your name."

"We needed it. It's fine."

 _She wishes they'd been better off like the families across town. They barely had enough money to keep feeding the livestock, and that bread was all they ever ate for a good few months._

"How many times would that mean your name is in that bowl today, though? And next year?" Adolphe's bottom lip shakes, his brows creasing as he tries to hold back his tears. "We just keep pushing you closer and closer to their grasp—how can it be okay?"

Octavia shrugs again. "Who cares how many is in there?" _Twenty-four_. "It's all going to be in one bowl, so it's not like my name will be the most common one there. I'm still safe." _She'll never be safe, not until she's nineteen._

Before the man can even respond and worry even more, Octavia wraps her arms around his shoulders and gives him a tight hug. Adolphe returns it reluctantly, taken aback by the action. It's not every day that Octavia hugs him out of the blue, especially during such touching subjects like this one. Normally she just reassures him endlessly and tells him everything is fine.

Today is full of exceptions, though.

"I need to start getting ready," she tells him. "They'll probably flog me if I'm late."

Adolphe hums in agreement. He lets her go and remains in the cold room, even as Octavia exits and peels away her wrist wraps.

Her nicest dress never gets worn unless it's for Reapings or special events. The last time she put it on, it was to attend Victor's birthday just a week prior at the town square. Hugo had walked with her, marvelling at the nude dress and matching heels, and Victor had joked about thinking Octavia had come in just tights at first glance. The jokes from her brother and the awe-struck stares don't deter her from wearing it, though; she likes the design, likes the way it gives her a break from everyday life. When she wears her nicest dress, she knows she'll have a good time.

Unless it's for a Reaping, of course. But those only come once a year, and she's had a lucky streak so far.

 _So far_.

Her heels click against the cobblestone and cement, louder than all of the other footsteps that follow her as the children make their ways to the Justice Building. She recognises a few faces from school, from the families who enter the shop, but no one approaches her. She doesn't approach them, either; if anything, she needs to focus on herself and make sure something doesn't go wrong with her simple stroll.

Hugo's not far from her, and he looks as forlorn as when he'd left the shop. He's dressed in his Sunday best as well, and she distinctly remembers the pattern of his shirt from Victor's birthday. If walking in close proximity to Octavia is awkward for him as the crowd becomes more dense, he doesn't show it.

She spots Camelia again, the girl dressed in all black save for her bright orange shirt and the colourful bracelets around her arm. To Octavia's luck the girl doesn't even notice when Octavia gets stuck behind her in their line, too busy listening to another girl in front of her to notice. She can't help glowering at the back of the fourteen-year-old's head, spitefully recalling her "advice" to be more observant of her surroundings.

Octavia's plenty observant. Camelia's the one who should take her own advice.

As though reading her mind, Camelia glances over her shoulder at Octavia. The glower is still on her face, and all she gets in response is a kind smile and a small wave from the girl. The one in front of her—loud and domineering—is quick to notice Camelia's attention is elsewhere.

"Aren't you that Faye girl?" the girl blurts out. Octavia blinks slowly at her, unimpressed by her lack of tact.

Camelia smiles at her friend. "Yeah, she's Octavia," she says. "Have you guys never met before?"

Octavia blinks slowly yet again. Oh, the amount of remarks she could make about how _large_ this District is compared to others.

"Octavia, this is Goldie Bakar—her family shepherds livestock for a living. Goldie, meet Octavia Faye." Camelia looks almost proud that she'd introduced the two of them.

"Nice dress," Goldie adds.

Octavia remains silent.

They give up on talking to her, returning to whatever conversation they'd been at prior. She can't wait for today to be over, and most importantly she can't wait for the day where she no longer has to worry about getting stuck in line behind Camelia again. The line shuffles forward every few seconds, children piling into the town square in search of their own sections. It's not long before she hears, "Camelia Caballo," and she has to steel herself for the identification. The prick of the needle against her finger will always feel like a nuisance, but at least it doesn't blood for long after.

"Octavia Faye?" She nods. The official points towards the front end of the crowd. "Second section on the right."

 _Click-clack, click-clack_. The sound of her heels is all she focuses on as she makes her way towards the seventeens section. She recognises a few faces from earlier today, from school, from the lines to collect tesserae. None of them she knows personally, but each one easy enough to point out in passing.

Octavia settles in line next to a mousy looking girl. Neither of them speak to each other or deign to greet the other. It's all a matter of simply standing and waiting patiently in line as the escort takes her place onstage. Children chatter amongst themselves while the adults talk about whatever it is they talk about on a day like this, and Octavia just keeps her head forward and her chin up high.

A bowl is lifted onto the stage—it looks big enough to hold one of the micro pigs Octavia had to tend to earlier this week—and a gradual silence settles over the rows. Octavia makes sure to stand up straight and keep her eyes to the front.

Rosso has been the escort for a few years now, staying after Dianne won. No one's won since, and every year it gets harder and harder to recognise Rosso with how much she tries to "improve" her appearance to get a pitty reassignment. In the years Octavia's been in the drawings, Rosso has had almost all of the fat sucked out of her midsection and legs, her torso shaped more like an hourglass, her chest enlarged threefold, and multiple months of work done to her nose.

Today she sports gigantic lips, which pull her already taught face into an immovable mask. Octavia's stomach churns in disgust as those beady green eyes scan over the crowd. Rosso's expression barely changes as she prepares herself to start the opening speech. It's unsettling to look at.

As though it can't get any worse, Rosso's lips are so tightly packed that they barely move when she speaks. Octavia scrunches up her face as she listens to the near-mumbled, "Welcome, citizens of District Ten."

This is by far the worst thing she's done to herself. Octavia had been stumped over the decision to enlarge her breasts—the back pain it causes must be _horrifying_ —but the lips almost look to be too much. Where in the world would they have gotten the fat to plump up her lips when she'd had it mostly removed years ago? The only place Octavia can think of is…

The mousy girl beside her leans back a bit, peeking behind Octavia. She tries her best not to watch the girl directly, curious enough to listen in as Rosso drones on into the microphone.

"I'll bet my entire allowance that they used the fat in her butt to make her lips bigger," the mousy girl whispers. There's a snicker behind Octavia, coming from a girl with an almost squeaky voice.

"That's so gross, Agnes!" she hisses.

"Where else would they get it?"

Well. Mystery solved. Octavia was right. Or at the very least, the mousy girl and her friend share her thoughts. She mutters to herself, "There's a joke about talking shit that can be made there somewhere."

Mousy girl slaps a hand over her mouth and stifles a laugh. Her squeaky friend lets out a delicate giggle. Octavia smiles to herself somewhat; she hadn't intended for them to hear her, but knowing they find it funny saves her at least some embarrassment.

There's a mumble from Rosso that sounds fairly close to, "Dianne Atreus will be mentoring this year." Everyone snaps to attention again—a name is about to be read out, and no one can afford to miss knowing that they won't be the ones being sent to the slaughter.

Dianne takes the stage on her own, still wearing the casual farming gear she'd walked into Faye Butchers in. She's covered in more dirt now, her hair wild, but she looks so nonchalant about it that no one questions her. If Octavia wanted to make a guess, she'd say that Dianne had tried to fit in some of her daily routine before the Reapings like Octavia had.

Rosso reaches into the bowl with a bone-thin hand, swishing the papers about with little care in the world. She's been like that for a while, according to Victor; she no longer cares about being careful to choose a card that feels right, just desperate to leave District 10 with a random winner. She pulls one out, snapping it open with a heave of a sigh.

Octavia doesn't understand her the first time—no one does, actually, and the Peacekeepers just shrug at each other and shake their heads. The lip enlargements were a _really_ bad choice, it seems. Rosso tries to repeat herself, but Dianne is quick to snatch the slip from her and make the announcement herself.

A booming voice comes from Dianne, louder than anything Octavia could ever imagine coming from a person. "Octavia Faye," she bellows.

Ah.

Everyone else's reactions are immediate and exaggerated, but Octavia remains calm. It was bound to happen at some point with all the tesserae taken under her name, and she is one of the older kids after all.

"I volunteer!" comes a masculine cry.

 _Thank God_ , is Octavia's first thought. But then the recognition sets in, and Victor's voice becomes loud and clear in her mind.

"I volunteer you assholes, take me!"

 _He can't volunteer_.

"I only turned nineteen a week ago—it should still count!"

 _But it doesn't. He can't stop Octavia from leaving._

She needs to focus. _She can't focus._ There's no point in breaking down now when she's the last pillar of strength left for Victor and Adolphe. _God, who's going to watch after her family?_ She has to ignore Adolphe screaming hysterically and Victor calling the Peacekeepers assholes for ignoring him. _It's too hard to listen to them begging for her life_. It'd be embarrassing if she tripped over the stairs for not paying attention. _She won't make it past the bloodbath if she can't make it up a set of stairs._

Her chin is still held up high as she nods to Dianne in greeting. Dianne in turn responds with a curt, "Miss Faye." She makes her way to Rosso, shaking her hand as Rosso looks her up and down greedily. As soon as the uncomfortable exchange is over, the microphone is handed to her for her parting words.

Octavia looks down at the crowd. She looks to Hugo, over in the eighteens section—he's trembling and red-faced—and then she looks to her family, collapsed to the ground and hysterical over Octavia being sent away. She inhales deeply and steels herself. This'll be the last thing she'll get to say to her home. It has to count.

"Vic," she starts. Victor startles, letting out a pained squeak in response. Adolphe stares up at his daughter with tears in his eyes, clinging to Victor helplessly. "Take care of Dad while I'm gone."

It's amazing how words that are intended to be supportive, reassuring, can have the opposite effect on people. She only meant to make a simple request, to leave some hope for Victor and Adolphe that she'll be coming home. But instead she sees her father crumble into the biggest mess she's seen him become since Isabelle leaving. _He's losing someone dear to him again_.

Victor screeches at the top of his lungs again, screaming at Hugo, "Volunteer for her, you coward!"

 _He won't._

"I thought you loved her!"

 _He did._

" _Why isn't anyone volunteering!?_ "

 _Because everyone wants to live._

The doors to the Justice Building close behind her. She's left with the sight of her family in disarray as a parting image, even as they enter the building to say their goodbyes. She's quite possibly shattered the last of Adolphe's emotional resolve with such a simple, heartfelt request.

Maybe she really does take after Isabelle.

* * *

 **Aaaand that's District 10! I hope you all liked it, and I'll see you all again in District 11. While we wait, here's this chapter's Quell Question!**

 **QQ #5:** Would you still seek out romantic or platonic relationships while being of Reaping age, _especially_ if you had to take tesserae and increase a risk of harsh separation?

 **Till next time!**


	12. Bitter Regret

**District 11! I hope you guys haven't been waiting for too long. We've got one more chapter left until we get to the Capitol kids, and then the Gamesssss!**

 **This kiddo was made by** TheEngineeringGames **! I hope I wrote him right!**

* * *

 **11 - Bitter Regret**

The look on Constance's face could kill, and Jareth knows he'd be the first to be struck down by it if she wanted.

"What'd they do this time?" she growls.

All three of them are held in place by the Peacekeepers, tight grips on their shoulders keeping them from fleeing at the sight of Constance's cane.

The Peacekeeper holding onto Jareth sighs deeply, shaking her head as she looks down at the trio. "All three of them were stalking around the orchards. Little ones said it was _him_ ," she growls as she gives him a light shove, "who told them to take some of the produce."

Heather and Rowan put on their best pitiful expressions, driving the point home to Constance that they aren't the ones at complete fault. It's all bull, of course—Jareth hadn't spoken a word to them since the last time they got in trouble, and they always blame him for their misdeeds.

"I see," is all Constance says. The way she glares at them all leaves Jareth to ponder just what she takes away from them this time as punishment. She won't dare flogging them again, especially since a flogging so soon after the last will leave them incapable of doing the chores she gives them.

"Workers begged us not to punish them," the Peacekeeper goes on. "Said you normally give them something to ponder better than we do."

"Aye," Constance sighs. "I'll take care of them. I'm so sorry for the disturbance they've caused."

The trio is released, held in place by the dull glare Constance keeps on them. She bids the Peacekeepers farewell. Jareth barely even meets Constance's gaze as the door shuts behind them. There's no doubt that he'll get the worst of the punishment thanks to Heather and Rowan's lie; he always gets the short end of the stick thanks to those two, and has long since given up arguing his case and trying to prove to Constance that he's innocent. She'll always believe the word of the majority, especially if they're against Jareth.

Constance lifts her cane a few inches off of the floor before slamming it back down loudly. Heather and Rowan flinch.

"You had better give me a good reason not to—" She doesn't even get to finish, the young duo bursting into tears and dropping to the floor to beg.

Heather's quaking voice is easier to hear than Rowan's sobbing, pleading, "We didn't want to, Miss Grendla! Jareth made us do it—he said he'd break our fingers if we didn't!"

Lies.

"I—I didn't—" Rowan sobs, "I do—don't even—"

"We just wanted to take a walk before we came back," Heather goes on. It's more lies—especially since Jareth was the one who wanted to go for a stroll, while the duo had immediately set to work stuffing peaches under their shirts. "I don't want broken fingers!"

Constance clicks her tongue at the two ten-year-olds. At times Jareth wonders if she sees their lies for what they are. After all, Constance still punishes them severely when caught red-handed.

"This is why no one wants to adopt you," Constance scowls. "Spineless, you are. No one wants a child who won't amount to anything. And _you_." She turns her glare to Jareth. "I'm not even surprised. It's no wonder your uncle didn't want you—you're nothing but a thorn in everyone's sides."

He knows. She likes to make sure he knows. Uncle Ari had made sure Jareth knew, too. At this point, it's hard to find anyone who doesn't tell him the same thing.

Heather and Rowan cry harder. She slams her cane against the floor again. "Shut up, already!" she bellows. Some of the kids further in the Community Centre pause their chores, peeking around the corner to see what's going on. "Because of this stunt I'm on even more thin ice with the Peacekeepers. Heather, Rowan."

The duo look up at her with tear-stained faces. "For the next week you're cleaning all the shit buckets," she orders, "and you'll be going without dinner tonight."

Jareth flinches at the punishment. He's used to getting something like that—cleaning out the feces soon after a flogging, followed by a lack of food—but he's never gone through something worse before. Rowan and Heather seem to realise this as well, their relieved smiles appearing almost smug for a split second. They wipe their faces and thank Constance for being lenient. Constance just dismisses them, bellowing at the children behind her to continue working once Rowan and Heather join them.

Soon it's just Jareth and Constance. He can't imagine how bad he's going to get it.

Constance's ringed hand slaps him hard against the cheek. He can feel the skin tear, the blood seeping out slowly, but he doesn't dare show any pain. If she knows it hurts him, she'll do it even more. Constance flexes her fingers a few times, probably experiencing an ache from the backhand. Jareth simply turns his head back to face her, expression blank and his face on fire.

"I had enough trouble without you here," she says lowly. She lifts her cane again, this time flinging it in the direction of Jareth's face. It doesn't make contact. Instead, it comes to a startling halt just inches away from the cut on his cheek. "I always knew you'd be a problem child. Makes me wonder if Daria and Korin had intended to be caught on purpose so you'd be someone else's problem."

He clenches his fists tightly by his sides. For all the physical pain she can inflict on him, insulting the memory of his parents will always tempt him to fight back against her. He may be severely underfed and shorter than most, but he'll be damned if this poor excuse of a guardian will get away with mocking his parents. One of these days he's going to give her a taste of her own medicine; one of these days he won't sit idly by while she runs down the two single kindest people he's ever known.

"Then again," she goes on, prodding at his cheek with the cane, "filth breeds filth. I should've seen your poor behaviour coming after what they pulled."

 _Shut up_ , he wants to scream. _Their intentions were pure._ Daria and Korin had tried their best to keep Jareth out of the Reapings, had done their best to keep their only child safe after he'd taken tesserae. What was wrong with wanting that?

Constance lowers the cane calmly. She takes a step closer to Jareth, lowering her voice further. "I hope you enjoyed your last meal, Mr. Vilna."

Jareth blinks. "Wha—"

"You won't be getting another one for a long, _long_ time."

The words stay fresh in his mind even as he joins the other kids and picks up the ragged mop to clean the floor. He doesn't hear the other kids as they amble about and do their own chores, his mind too far away to even register that he's scrubbed the same spot ten times over. Constance couldn't possibly be planning on starving him for too long, could she? She's abusive and proud, but she won't leave him on death's doorstep, right?

Jareth clutches the mop tighter as he tries to recall his last meal. It had to have been yesterday, right? The scraps he'd pulled from a compost bin near the orchards? He can't even remember what it tasted like, only that it had gotten rid of the pain in his stomach. Jareth doesn't know if he can suffer through that again, especially if Constance gives what little food he normally gets to someone else. Worse still, what if she keeps giving everyone else his food instead of lifting his punishment?

The mop slides against the floor with a harsh squelch. What if she tries to starve him so she doesn't have to take care of him? She's certainly the type to do it if scornful enough. But she'd lose the bread and grains he brings in with his tesserae. Then again with how much she forces every child in her care to claim, losing Jareth's benefits won't leave her in a struggle. She'll just take in more orphans and make them claim even more.

Someone bumps into him—the small girl apologises immediately, struggling to hold all of the tattered clothes in her arms—and Jareth is quick to force himself out of his thoughts. He'll worry about Constance's punishment later. For now, he can survive on scraps like he had before.

Even with dirtied water and a tattered mop, he manages to make the floor shine like it'S never seen a day of mess in its life. Jareth leans against the mop handle and huffs out a proud breath. It's a small accomplishment, but an accomplishment nonetheless.

And then Heather moves to his side, rancid bucket in her hands as she grins down at the clean floor.

"Don't you dare," Jareth warns her. Heather just looks up to him with that same grin. It sends a shiver down his spine. It's the kind of grin that only the most cold-hearted, manipulative kids in the Hunger Games make.

"Cheater," she whispers. And then Heather leans forward, her whole body crashing to the floor as the bucket flies from her hands. It lands in the middle of the room, feces and urine spilling everywhere, as Heather shrieks in what Jareth expects to be shock.

Kids come running into the room immediately, as does Constance. Heather doesn't say anything, her face pressed to the floor as she screeches out her sobs and drags her arms against the floor. Jareth can only stare at the mess she's made—that she'll blame on _him_. A single strike against the face and an undetermined time without food isn't all he's getting. His stomach drops as he carefully, warily meets Constance's eyes.

She's inhaling deeply through her nose, eyes wide and lips pursed together tightly. Her knuckles pale as she grips the cane painfully.

"Jareth Vilna—"

"M—Miss Grendla?"

Constance jumps. All rage disappears from her expression. Heather ceases her fake sobbing, scowling up at Constance as the woman whirls around on the heels of her feet.

Behind her is someone Jareth vaguely knows of, knows that Constance will always be kind to no matter what. He used to live in the Community Centre with everyone else after all, set free from her tyranny after securing a victory in a past Hunger Games. Jareth had still been with his parents when it'd happened, but the farewell after Barley Tanton's victory tour had happened in the days following Jareth's arrival.

No one had heard Barley enter the room. Every time he visits he seems to go unnoticed until he speaks up. Unlike all the malnourished, bruised children surrounding him and Constance, Barley has some meat on his bones and faded scars along his arms and hands. He looks like winning the unwinnable game has left him better off than everyone else—which isn't far from the truth, given the rewards the Capitol granted him upon returning.

"I'm n—not interrupting an—anything, am I?" he stutters. His wide brown eyes jump between Jareth and Constance, then to the mess coating the floor.

Constance shakes her head and lovingly pats him on the shoulder. "Of course not, dear! I always have time for your visits; you know that!"

"A—Are you—"

"No need to be so shy, Mr. Tanton. Come in, come in."

She guides him around the mess, leading the way to her office with an excited smile. Constance only ever looks this happy when she knows Barley is going to donate some of his allowance to the Centre. All the other kids disperse without hesitation, taking time to themselves now that Constance isn't about to have a meltdown.

Barley meets Jareth's gaze shortly before he enters the next room. Jareth feels like he might be mistaken when the older boy nods his head to the front door, feels he might be imagining things as it registers as a signal to run while she's distracted. But then Barley does it again, a pleading look in his eye—he _wants_ Jareth to avoid whatever punishment Heather tried to throw at him.

Jareth doesn't hesitate. He drops the mop right on top of Heather, letting the damp tendrils land flat on her neck, and hurriedly walks in the direction of the front door.

* * *

"Sh—She never goes easy with that d—damned thing." Barley presses the leaf to Jareth's cheek, hands moving too delicately for someone whose hands are so calloused and scars. "I'm lucky I can s—still walk after one inci—" He seems to choke on his words. Jareth wonders if he's forcing himself not to stutter. "— _dent_."

Jareth grunts in acknowledgement.

The boy just clears his throat nervously. After letting the leaf sit on Jareth's wound, Barley shuffles over to another chair tucked into the table. He's put three seats between himself and Jareth. "C—" he tries, only to cringe and scrunch up his face with a choke. "— _stance_ never did like kids. She only likes the t— _ssera_ they bring in."

Old news to Jareth, old enough that he doesn't bother with a grunt this time. Barley watches him with a cautious expression, almost as though he's uncertain of how Jareth will react.

He'd probably get right up and walk out of the house in normal circumstances. No one in this area of District 11 has good intentions towards him or his family. But something about Barley feels different. Is it the fact that he escaped Constance? That he's one of the only victors still alive here? Is it because he has the stability and safety that Jareth would kill to have?

Jareth heaves a sigh. He sinks into the seat and looks around the room. It's made from wood all around, a strong pine smell filling the room and wafting from the furniture. A lot of this must have been imported from 7, especially the handmade dining table and chairs.

"Did you need something?" Jareth asks as he observes the nearby fireplace.

Barely waves a hand, laughing nervously at the question. He probably hadn't expected to be asked that. He's probably been expecting silence this entire time. "N—No, nothing. I just—" He chokes again, shaking his head. "— _know_ what her punishments are like. That wasn't the first time the— _bucket_ was spilt somewhere."

Jareth thinks back to all the times he's had to eat on the floor, had his face pressed to the floor, had to scrub it furiously to get rid of the day's mess. His stomach churns—if he had any food in there, it'd most definitely be threatening to come up and say hello.

"I j—just wanted to help—p," Barley adds.

So he's a nice guy. Whatever. Jareth knows they can exist. He just never expected to find one so close to home. Barley clears his throat again. He tries to say something, only to cut himself off when he starts to stutter again.

Jareth looks right at him as he struggles. "Why do you keep forcing yourself not to stutter?" he mumbles.

Barley covers his face with his hands. Is he embarrassed? Upset that Jareth had pointed it out? "I—I'm so sorry," Barley fusses. "She always s—said that no one likes a st—st—stutter and I—I—"

"Calm down!" The panic in Barley's voice feels infectious. If he doesn't stop him from having a full blown breakdown, Jareth is going to stress as well. "I don't care about why you _do_ stutter—I just wanted to know why you force yourself not to."

Wide brown eyes look down at him hopefully. It's sort of off-putting to see—this sixteen-year-old boy, who's seen the horrors of the Hunger Games firsthand and came back, is looking at Jareth like his approval means the world to him. Jareth shifts uncomfortably in his seat, unable to meet Barley's gaze. What in the world did Constance do to him mentally?

"I d—didn't always do it," Barley explains. "My br—brother did. Does. Con—Constance would beat us b—both to make sure I n—never picked it up—p."

"But you did?"

He nods. "My—My psychologist after the G—Games tried to f—fix it. Can't have a—a nervous victor. Turned out Constance's p—punishments made me too aware of whether or not I did it. Knowing I sh—shouldn't stutter made me p—prone to it more."

Damn. Maybe Barley hasn't totally escaped Constance's abuse. He may look physically healthy and his scars may be healing, but the fear of punishment for just speaking wrong doesn't seem to have gone away. "Did your psych treat you?"

Barley nods happily. "I'm m—much better than last year!"

 _Much better_. Jareth hopes he never finds out how "worse" had sounded.

"How's your cheek?" Barley adds. "Does it still h—hurt?"

Jareth shrugs. As Barley stands up and moves back into the kitchen, he brings a hand up to the leaf and prods at it lightly. There's a little bit of pain leftover, but it's not unbearable. If Constance had gotten her way—if Barley hadn't arrived—there's no doubt she would've rubbed his race in the spilt excrement. An infection like that would've killed him, too. For all his bad luck today, Barley's doing a good job of balancing it out with good.

He shouldn't get used to this, though. Barley's come by the Community Centre plenty of times before, and today was the only day he payed Jareth attention. They may never speak again after today. There's no point in getting comfortable with being treated nicely when it'll end before the day does.

Barley comes back into the room, a tall blonde woman following him with a steaming plate of something. In his own hands are two plates, a small tube of something tucked under his arm.

"I a—assume she'll take your food for a while," Barley says. He looks almost guilty, but still sympathetic. Jareth can see Constance taking his food for stuttering in the past. "Eat your f—fill before you go back. Please."

The woman sets the plate down on the middle of the table, and and unfamiliar scent hits Jareth right in the face. It's warm, wholesome… It smells like a calm night with his parents; like all hug from someone he's missed for so long.

And when the woman cuts into it the pastry cover of the dish, the smell just intensifies. Jareth can feel his mouth watering as he watches her pull a slice of the golden food onto his plate. Barley hovers over the dish with the tube, tapping it every so often—and soft, white powder sprinkles out, lightly dusting the slice and giving it that extra sweet appeal.

It can't be what he thinks it is. They never have it here—they never have the pastry for it, let alone the power to bake them. But that has to be what he's looking at. It has to be an apple pie. It looks just like the pictures he sees in pamphlets.

Barley slides the plate over to Jareth. A silver spoon soon follows.

"M—Meredith used to make this for her k—kids in the Capitol. It's h—heavenly."

Jareth pauses before he can even dig his spoon into the pie. A Capitolite in 11? That doesn't make a lot of sense. Well, not if she was an Avox.

Barley and Meredith seem to have noticed Jareth's pause, suddenly wary and unable to meet his eye. So Meredith must be an Avox, he thinks; the bright blonde hair, the pale skin so unusual to District 11, and the healthy look to her despite not being related to Barley or being a victor herself. All that'd be missing from her would be the tongue.

Of course they're wary now. Everyone hates the idea of Avoxes running around and reminding everyone that ten people died for just one Avox to replace them all. If Jareth wasn't treated like an Avox on a daily basis for a simple mistake, a simple regret, he'd see Meredith the same way.

He smiles up at her. Meredith keeps her face a mask, refusing to react. "Thank you for sharing it with me," he says. "I've always wanted to try it."

It tastes as heavenly as Barley claims it is. The rich flavour of the apples and the syrup, the sweetness of the powder and the soft crumble of the pastry. Everything he's suffered through today— _everything_ —is worth this one moment. He doesn't care if Constance takes his food away from months, even a year; he'll never forget the taste of apple pie until the day he dies. He's officially one of the few people in District 11 fortunate enough to taste it.

He'll never let them take _that_ from him.

When he looks up at Meredith again, already halfway through with his first slice, he spots a small smile on her face. She nods, almost thanking him, and promptly retreats back into the kitchen.

Barley's smiling at him, too; it's the biggest one he's seen yet, even as he smiles around his spoon. "Not everyone l—likes Meredith being here," he says.

Jareth shrugs. "Not everyone likes me, either."

And the smile vanishes. Jareth inhales deeply, preparing himself for some kind of probing. His parents' infamy always follows him, always leave people making assumptions. Constance and the other kids don't help much, either.

"I heard about that." Barley sets down his spoon and stares tiredly down at his slice. "I was front row at the ex—" He chokes on the word. Jareth looks at him with interest. That doesn't sound like a struggle to pronounce something; it sounds like reluctance. "At the end."

It'd happened a week before the Games had begun even the Reapings. It shouldn't be a surprise to Jareth that Barley was there at Korin and Daria's execution.

"D—Did they really do it? Break into the Justice B—Building?"

He keeps his lips sealed. Talk of a simple mistake will _not_ ruin his apple pie. His parents had their reasons. No one else needs to be privy to them after all these years of ignoring the idea.

Barley watches him for a few minutes. The silence is filled only by the sound of Meredith flitting about in the kitchen, doing her own jobs and cleaning every time she comes within sight. Jareth just continues to eat his pie, eventually asking for more once he finishes.

"Eat your fill," Barley reminds him. He pulls another slice of pie onto the plate, and the silence resumes for the rest of Jareth's visit.

* * *

It's quite possibly the first time he's never felt hungry after a meal. Jareth sighs dreamily and rubs his belly. Apple pie is now his absolute favourite food, and he'll be damned if he can't find a way to have it again.

The line moves forward, leaving Jareth to hobble further along with his full stomach. He's about two kids away from the official. Pretty soon he'll be able to cross off another Reaping from his list and wait with bated breaths for the next one.

How many times is his name in the bowl this year? He's only fourteen, normally only having two—plus the extra three he'd taken when he was twelve. Five. But with Constance forcing the kids to take tesserae? Well, two years of living with Constance keeps it at five, but when he's taken enough for almost all of the kids in the Centre—twenty-six, including himself— _and_ Constance, he's at…

Fifty-nine.

When did it get so high? Where in the world did all the food to come from that number go? It's absolutely baffling and disappointing. The high number is probably how Barley got Reaped for his Games, too. Constance may as well be sending every child in her care to their deaths because of her greed.

The two kids in front of him move off to their lines. The official blinks up at Jareth slowly.

"Jareth Vilna?" he sighs once the name appears on his screen. Jareth nods mutely. "Fourteens section, on the left."

He wiggles his way through the crowded section—everyone else from the Centre looks to be here, Jareth arriving last. All he has left to do is wait patiently for the escort to get this over with. What's he going to do once he's done, he wonders? Going back to the Centre will definitely land him some trouble with Constance and the other kids. Going to pick up a shift at the orchard for someone will probably be out of the question after the Peacekeepers were fed that lie today. Maybe he can try sneak back to Barley's house and ask for more apple pie. No, for all he knows Barley will turn him away.

Jareth supposes it's just a simple night walk tonight. At least then he can be with his thoughts in peace.

The mayor enters the stage, tapping the microphone once before speaking into it. Jareth stands up a little straighter, trying to see over the heads of the older kids.

"I'm afraid our escort is running a tad behind," he sighs. The man looks tired, like he just wants this over with as much as everyone else. "We'll be reading the Treaty of Treasons without her, followed by a speech from this year's mentor to fill the time. I apologise for the inconvenience."

And so begins the stalling. They must know how far away the escort is, judging by the need for a speech _and_ the Treaty of Treason to pass time. Jareth shifts on his feet as the mayor reads from the cue cards, doing his best not to sound disgruntled as the words pour out of his mouth. Everyone starts to chatter, no one bothering to silence the children, and time seems to drag on and _on_ by the time the mayor reaches the halfway point.

Finally he finishes, clearing his throat and thanking everyone for their time. From there they wait for the mentor to come onstage, to say their piece. It's not hard to figure out who it might be—there's only five victors in District 11: Seeder, Chaff, Barley, Teff, and Flax. Two females, three males.

It takes a while for someone to even come onstage. There's bickering behind the scenes, pleading, before finally someone stumbles up and grabs the microphone. He's tall and aging, a lilt to his voice that suggests a mischievous side to him. Jareth recognises him immediately once the stump hand waves to everyone. It's Chaff.

"Just want to clarify," Chaff starts, "I'm _not_ the mentor this year. The boy's still getting a bit of stagefright, so I'm delivering the speech for him."

A victor with stagefright—male—called "boy" almost affectionately. Either Flax or Barley. Jareth shifts on his feet. It's most likely Barley; Flax is nearing thirty, if he recalls correctly.

Chaff licks his lips as he gazes out at the crowd, bracing himself to stall for the escort.

"You're all still children," he says. "Someone's daughter, son, child—what have you. You're someone who will always be missed."

Jareth huffs. Two years ago that would've been true.

"It may feel like this lot you've been dealt is difficult. Impossible to live with, even. I'm not going to lie and say that it's easier once this obstacle passes. It's not." He looks to the eighteens section. "You live knowing someone else may have taken your place." He looks back to the twelves section. "You grow up knowing only fear and despair."

The small ground of officials behind Chaff moves about—Jareth can just barely spot Barley hiding behind them. "The Hunger Games have become as much a sport as a game of tag or lifting weights. Some thrive for it. Some despise it. Some of us victors call it the unwinnable games; even when you come back, the last survivor of twenty-four, you don't ever truly leave the arena. You don't ever truly escape the other Tributes.

"Even with all the horror around every corner, we still have hope. District Eleven _still has hope_. We may not have as many survivors as the other Districts, but we still _survive_. We live in the elements. We face death every day."

Chaff heaves out a breath shakily. This can't possibly be a Capitol-approved speech; he's bringing attention to how horrible the Games can be, how tough District 11 has it.

"You're not just children of District Eleven," Chaff says. "You're the children of the land. The children of the trees and the elements. You coexist with your surroundings better than anyone else—and no sponsorship or victory will ever take that away from you.

"May the odds be ever in your favour, kiddos. I can only hope that this Quell is kind to all of us."

There's a stretch of silence for only a few fleeting seconds. Jareth entirely expects Chaff to be pulled offstage kicking and screaming, but soon the sound of clapping erupts from the adults. All around the children is applause and approval. Chaff bows curtly, turns on his heel and retreats to the officials—and Barley. The two exchange a hug just as the escort sprints onstage with a screech.

"So sorry I'm late!" she wheezes. Her assistants are following at the same speed, approaching the staircase at an alarming speed with the Reaping bowl held between them.

Jareth squeezes his eyes shut just before the bowl goes flying. He hears a few alarmed shouts, a deafening crash from the stage. When he opens them again, he's faced with one of the biggest blunders in the Games yet.

There's now a giant crater in the stage, glass strewn about the escort's feet along with countless slips of paper.

She stares down at her feet in horror. It doesn't take long for her to break down into tears, crouching down on the floor and sweeping the papers frantically. Jareth almost pities her. As she cries out in pain, having clearly cut her hands, Barley breaks away from the officials and kneels beside her. Jareth watches carefully as the boy removes shards from her hands and presses leaves to her palms. Chaff joins him, helping the woman to her feet as she continues to sob.

Faintly, Jareth can hear Chaff say, "It's okay, Carlina. We all make mistakes."

As they enter the Justice Building, Carlina screeches, " _I'm a failure! Why do I even try keep this job?_ "

Sheesh. Now he really feels bad for her. Escorts never really need to do much outside of coach Tributes with interviews and appealing to sponsors. But the pressure of just pulling out a name and sending someone to the Games? Maybe it shakes them as much as it does the children.

Barley flounders about onstage for a moment, panicking once realisation sets in. He looks up and down, to the adults and to the officials, before finally he clears his throat and looks to the assistants still crumpled on the ground.

He whispers something, gets a curt reply that makes him panic further. It takes Jareth a moment to realise that Barley will now be picking a name in Carlina's place. The hesitance to lean down and pick up a slip, the shaking of his hands as he pops it open.

"J—J—J—" Barley glances up frantically at the crowd. He looks ready to faint. "Ja— _reth_ V—Vilna."

All of the air in Jareth's lungs just rushes out of him. He's escorted roughly to the stage by—what a surprise—the same Peacekeeper who'd brought him to Constance earlier today. Jareth rips his arm away once he reaches the stairs; it hurts, probably close to the point of bruising thanks to her grip. He stands by Barley's side and nods in greeting to the boy. Barley just stares down at him in horror, all of the colour draining from his face.

He supposes he should say something as a farewell. There's not really anything he _has_ to say to everyone gathered in front of him. They've all shunned him, treated him like dirt and walked over even his most basic rights. If there's one thing he could send himself off with, it's spite.

Jareth searches for Constance in the sea of faces; she's close to the twelves section, overseeing the new additions to the annual lottery. She's smiling smugly up at him, more than likely pleased to see him in a position of suffering greater than she could ever deal out.

"Constance," Jareth says sweetly into the microphone. Her smile immediately falls, replaced by a blank mask. He can't wait to throw her punishment back in her face. "I'm _definitely_ going to enjoy my next meal."

He doesn't get time to see her explode, but he certainly hears it. Constance screeches and throws her cane against the ground, calling him all manner of names as the doors shut behind him. At his side, now free of the anxiety that such a large crowd had brought, Barley hides a sheepish smile behind his hand.

* * *

 **And that's District 11! What'd you all think? You excited for the pre-Games events now that we're closer?**

 **While you wait for the next update, here's a Quell Question to ponder!**

 **QQ #6:** If you were a Tribute, what food would you eat first from the Capitol during the train ride?

 **With that, I'll see you all again in District 12!**


	13. Canaries

**Blergh I think the ending of the chapter got away from me a bit. But I hope the rest still comes out okay!**

 **This kiddo was made by** goldie031 **! Lemme know what you think of him!**

* * *

 **12 - Canaries**

"There was a shift, I swear!" The sponge scrubbing against his hands hurts. Cole flinches with every addition of soap Hartson applies. "There was a weird smell and I _knew_ something bad was going to happen!"

Hartson just sighs as he rinses the sponge. Cold water pours over Cole's hands, leaving his fingers feeling numb.

"I'm not lying, Hartson! I swear!"

"I know, kid." Hartson ruffles Cole's already wild hair. "I know you like to be safe rather than sorry."

The miner next to him scoffs, flicking her hands down at the sink. She's part of Hartson's crew, one of the many members who openly complain about Cole going into the tunnels with them. Hartson doesn't even look back at the woman, who boldly declares, "Just get rid of the kid already, Flare. We're losing what little earnings we already get down there."

Hartson sighs again. He gives Cole a light shove in the direction of the break room, nodding for him to go ahead. Cole looks between Hartson and the crew member—will Hartson give her a good talking to?—before quickly limping in the direction of the steel doors.

Other members of their crew are moving into the break room, as well as some other shifts that Cole sees on a daily basis. He slips inside, between two taller men with tattered bags in their hands, and does a quick once-over of the interior. The break room is lined with tables and benches as usual, the dim lighting and cold walls leaving much to be desired in regards to comfort. Most of the workers head over to an empty table or join their own crews, but kids like Cole have their own place in the break room.

In the far corner of the room, right up against the wall and with little to no food in their hands, are the other canaries. He recognises the majority wearing the same uniform as him, huddled together for warmth as they watch their crews munch on their snacks, though the rest wear two different uniforms. The lady that runs the orphanage had always told Cole that other orphanages supplied canaries to the miners, but it still manages to throw Cole off when he sees the clashing colours against the yellow shirts and black pants he sees in his everyday life.

He trips over his own feet twice as he makes his way over. Despite all the effort that Hartson had put into washing Cole's hands free of coal dust, he still manages to pick up stains from workers he passes. Cole huddles close to the other kids from his orphanage once he arrives, sitting himself next to one of the canaries still in training.

Ciera shifts so that Cole can get more warmth. He smiles down at her, thankful, and asks, "How did training go?"

Ciera's only ten, two years younger than him, and has been in training since she arrived at the orphanage a year ago. He hears a lot of adults say she's good at detecting gases in the air, which is why Hartson let it slip that she may be joining a crew in a few weeks. As far as Cole knows, every other crew has a canary; though once a year some of them go away for the Hunger Games, with a rare few turning eighteen and joining the crew entirely. Cole's personally excited that he'll be seeing Ciera more in the mines—they've been close friends since they met, and he loves spending time with her.

"Really good," she rasps. Like Cole, her voice has become deep and crackly. Hartson says it's because of all the smoke and dust they breathe in. "I got all the tests right."

Cole shivers slightly. Another child from their orphanage joins them, huddling next to Cole. "That's great!" he cheers. "Do you think we'll get to have the same breaks?"

"I hope so." Ciera smiles proudly. "It'll be really fun if we do."

The last of the miners on their breaks enter the room, filling the tables one by one. Cole watches eagerly for members of Hartson's crew. He likes counting them off, seeing who sits where. Sometimes he tries to guess what they brought for snacks, wonders what those snacks taste like. He coughs harshly—just the slightest bit of dust spills out of his mouth—just as his favourite member of the crew arrives.

Not a lot of people like Nirav for some reason. They always give him mean looks and throw things at him when he isn't looking. It makes Cole sad when he sees it happen, but at least Nirav knows how to bring his smile back. The man scratches at the stubble along his jaw as he spots the canaries. He hurries past the workers, jumping over legs stuck out in his path and catching bags through his way.

Nirav is amazing, Cole thinks. He wants to know how he does all those catches, how he dodges everything when he's paying attention. Everyone's missing out on how great he is, being mean to Nirav all the time. Cole wishes they'd be a little nicer to him.

Nirav wastes no time joining the canaries. It seems like it's the only place he can sit at times, with all the nasty glares everyone gives him. Ciera beams at him, as does Cole, but he can't help noticing that a few of the older canaries move away from where Nirav kneels down.

"Did you get a lot of good work done?" Ciera asks. Cole gawks at her. Cole could've told her how their crew's work went!

Nirav grins at her, setting down the bag that had been thrown at him. He gives her a thumbs-up, then points to Cole.

"Did you do something?" Ciera gasps. "Did you get to do something fun?"

Cole smiles proudly. That's another thing he likes about Nirav—he lets Cole talk about his accomplishments, always seems to know when Cole wants to announce an event. Cole's always been social, always wanted to be involved with people. Some of the miners get angry at him over it (he still can't figure out why), but Nirav always, _always_ looks to Cole to say his piece. Maybe it's the fact that Nirav himself doesn't talk at all, that not everyone likes to peek into his private life. Or maybe Nirav is just super cool and only Cole knows.

" _I_ ," Cole brags, "saved everyone from deadly gas."

There's a lopsided grin on Nirav's face as he watches the canaries. He always makes that face whenever Cole mentions things like this. Is he proud of Cole? He must be! Nirav is always so nice to him!

Ciera's looking at him, mouth agape, as she shuffles closer. "That's amazing!" she squeaks. "I'd be so scared if I smelt it for real! You're a real hero, Cole!"

" _Please_."

Nirav immediately tenses up, the grin erased from his features like a candle being extinguished. Cole and Ciera watch him carefully—his hands clench into fists, his shoulders rigid and his expression a blank mask. From their left, coming from the direction of the canaries in blue, approaches a member of Hartson's crew. She's still covered in a large amount of soot and sweat, but by now Cole knows everyone by the look of their hands.

There's a thin white line around her ring finger, standing out against her olive skin; there's not a lot of women in Hartson's crew, but she's the only one with that pale line around her finger. One of the older kids said that it's what adult's fingers look like when a ring they wear for a long time is removed. Cole sometimes wishes he could see what her ring looks like, but the orphanage doesn't like letting kids wander about the Seam on their own.

Cassia doesn't stop too close to Nirav, keeping him at arm's length like everyone else does. He doesn't move to look up at her either, both pretending the other doesn't exist. Cassia sends a glare down at Cole, at Ciera, and he shrinks back at the anger in her eyes.

"You wasted valuable hours, is what you did," Cassia seethes. Cole frowns up at her. She'd said that earlier, but what do hours have to do with anything? "If you ask me, you're the worst canary I've had to work with."

"I'm a good canary!" Cole argues. Cassia glares even more harshly down at him. He shrinks back again, squeaking in fright. "I'm a good canary…"

Cassia shakes her head with a sigh. "You're Hartson's favourite, is what you are," she says. "Probably the only reason why he hasn't sent you away."

The words hurt worse than starving nights. Cole's face contorts as he stares up at her, a small whine slipping out of his throat as he starts to shake. He's not cold—well, not as cold as usual with Ciera and another canary either side of him—but he definitely feels something making him tremble. He's not scared or angry. If anything, his chest hurts and his eyes burn, his nose suddenly clogged as his vision blurs.

Cole sucks in a deep breath and shakes his head up at Cassia. She's wrong! Hartson keeps Cole on the crew because he's a good canary! She's just jealous that Hartson likes him better than her. That's all it is; jealousy!

And he wants to tell her this, demand she stop being so mean to him. He opens his mouth, teeth chattering together loudly. Out of the corner of his eye he can see Nirav moving, pulling his attention away ever so slightly. He has to tell Cassia she's wrong. He has to… Cole has to… Has to…

He's juggling. Three small pebbles, all the size of Cole's smallest finger, thrown about in the air with precise movements.

Ever so slowly the trembling subsides. Cole isn't sure how, but everything he wants to say to Cassia is just melting away as he watches the pebbles with wide eyes. He can't remember what she'd said mere seconds earlier, can't remember why he's so upset at her. All he can focus on is Nirav's hands moving back and forth as the pebbles fly about between them.

The entire world just fades then, all of Cole's attention glued to the dark-skinned man. This always seems to happen whenever something bad goes on around Cole, always seems to pull him away from the world and keep him from getting too distressed. Nirav meets his eye, smiling reassuringly; in a matter of seconds he ceases his juggling. Cole blinks. He smiles back, completely calm and almost unaware of Cassia's presence nearby.

Almost.

She lets out a huff that gets their attention again—Nirav's brow quirks, a dry glance thrown her way. As she crosses her arms over her chest, she scoffs, "At least the _Avox_ knows how to make itself useful."

And with that Cassia storms away.

It takes a while for the whole argument to come back to him, but at least this time he's able to sit through it without Cassia's intimidating gaze on him. Ciera leans her head down on Cole's shoulder.

"Are you okay?" she whispers. Cole nods, then shakes his head.

"I wish she wasn't so mean," he pouts. "I'm a good canary. Hartson told me so." And with a pleading look in his eye, he turns to Nirav. "Right?"

Nirav smiles. He clenches his fists, thumbs sticking out, and flicks his right thumb against the left. _Best_ , he declares.

Cole smiles back at him. He's a good canary—he's the best canary. Cassia's just jealous that Hartson likes him more. That's all.

* * *

It's not every day that he gets called into Mrs. Wyland's office. Normally she leaves the kids be, only ever calls them to her personally when there's a change in shifts or big news to be shared. Cole kicks his feet out in front of him as he waits for her to come back into the room. Cole's been in this room exactly twice since he was picked up off the streets as a toddler: The first time was when he'd been given the details of whose crew he'd be working with, and the second had been following a nasty sprain that had left him with his limp.

Mrs. Wyland nearly pulled him from the mines because of the sprain, but Cole's been doing fine despite it. He just can't run as fast as the miners or walk properly, and there's nothing wrong with that. Canaries aren't put in the mines to run—they're put down there to sniff out danger.

Cole knocks his worn black sneakers together insistently. He looks up and down the room, out the window behind her desk. He even concentrates on the dents in her desk, spotting a few new etches and splinters since the last time he'd seen it. He peeks up at her paperwork next, curious to see what she's been working on. One piece of paper has lots of numbers next to names—Cole can see his own, right next to the words "Not Taken"—while a few others have what looks to be costs of things. Wheat, water, fruits; it's all things Cole remembers eating when they're lucky enough to have food to spare.

Right in the middle of the desk is a slip of paper labelled "complaints", alongside names of canaries who have short sentences written about them.

 _Nigella Whitfield, 13, Evening shift - So far has raised sixteen false alarms. Will retire if another incident occurs._

 _Charlie Day, 9, Morning shift - Failed to detect dangerous fumes on three occasions; two crew members lost. Recommended retirement. (Find family that can afford an orphan.)_

 _Cole Aish, 12, Morning shift - Costing miners money with false alarms. No action taken from crew leader._

 _Cole Aish, 12, Morning shift - Frequent arguments with miners. No action taken by crew leader._

 _Cole Aish, 12, Morning shift - Raised forty-seven false alarms in the past two months. No action taken by crew leader._

 _Cole Aish, 12, Morning shift - Getting easily distracted by the Avox in the crew. Retirement recommended. No action taken by crew leader._

 _Cole Aish, 12, Morning shift - Has become increasingly skittish in the mines. Disaster risk suspected. Retirement recommended. No action taken by crew leader._

 _Cole_ —

He jumps almost clear off his seat when the door creaks open. Mrs. Wyland heaves out the heaviest sigh as she enters the room; the door slides shut behind her, the floorboards groaning with each step she takes.

"Good morning, Mr. Aish," she says drearily. Cole waves to her with a big smile. Mrs. Wyland's grey eyes just stare down at him with exhaustion. "I've been hearing quite a bit about you."

Cole nods. He points to the paper on her desk. "My name is on there a lot," he says.

"It is. Do you know why?"

He blinks. "There's stuff written next to my name. Isn't that why?"

Mrs. Wyland sighs again, picking up the paper as she rubs her brow. A pair of cracked glasses are pulled from her desk, perched on her nose as she counts aloud how often Cole's name appears on the list. "Fifteen notices made by your crew in just this past month," Mrs. Wyland reports. "That makes a total of seventy complaints since you joined Mr. Flare's crew."

Cole's heart leaps into his throat. People are complaining? Why would they complain about him? He's a good canary; Hartson says so!

"But why—"

"Cole." She sets down the paper. "Honey. I know it's not a lot, but what you have here is all you have right now. We haven't asked you to take tessera yet, you're not stuck begging in the Seam. You really need to make better judgements when you're in those mines."

"But I am!" His lip trembles as he tries to bite back tears. "I'm a good canary, Mrs. Wyland! Hartson still wants me in the crew!"

She nods. "I am aware of Mr. Flare's decision to keep you. That's why I asked him to come in and have a chat with the two of us."

Cole watches her, mouth agape as what she says processes in his mind. Why would Hartson need to come in? Why can't Mrs. Wyland just let Cole stay with him? Cole doesn't want to stop being a canary—it's all he has! No one else appreciates him like Hartson does, and Nirav always makes the canaries from Cole's orphanage smile. Why talk to Hartson about something that isn't wrong?

He whines before he can stop himself. The floodgates basically open themselves up as panic settles in his chest. He doesn't want to leave Hartson's crew. He doesn't want to stop being a canary. He doesn't want to—

The door creaks open again. Cole actually squeaks in alarm, almost flinching as he wipes at his face. Some of the grime under his nails sticks to his face, but he doesn't get much time to remove it as the seat beside him is occupied by an older figure. Hartson just groans as he leans into the seat, appearing stiff and exhausted from the day's work so far. Cole can't bring himself to look the man in the eye. He just chokes down a sob and scrubs at his face with the front of his shirt.

Mrs. Wyland removes her glasses and rests her hands neatly on her desk. She looks between Cole and Hartson once before saying, "Thank you for joining us, Mr. Flare."

One glance at Cole brings an edge to Hartson's tone. "Clearly this won't be a discussion about the weather."

"If only." She slides the paper across the desk. "I'm sure you're well aware of Cole's actions in the mines. It's usually protocol for the crew's _leader_ to report these things, after all."

"Must have slipped my mind."

"Mr. Flare, I didn't call you here just so you could treat the situation so glibly. There are serious concerns about your canary."

Hartson sinks into his seat with a grunt. "I'm _aware_ of these concerns," he grumbles.

"Then perhaps you'd like to explain why you're still using him."

He glances down at the paper. Then Hartson looks to Cole. Cole sniffs loudly and wipes at his face with his shirt again. There's a big wet splotch on his shirt, too damp to keep him warm when he goes back to work. Hartson clicks his tongue and shakes his head.

"Only if you tell me someone else will take him," he says.

Mrs. Wyland opens her mouth, only to stop when Hartson adds, "And it has to be the truth."

"Mr. Flare," she sighs. "This is people's lives and jobs on the line."

"Cole's included."

"Maybe so, but unlike Cole your workers have families to support."

Hartson nods to her smugly. "He stays."

"Mr. Flare—"

"And why today, of all days?" Hartson looks down at Cole again, this time reaching over and ruffling his hair. "It's his first time having his name put in, and he's more than likely going to see a friend leave for the Hunger Games. Why _today_ , Mrs. Wyland?"

Cole's never seen Mrs. Wyland hesitate before, and it leaves him a little stumped as to how serious this talk is becoming. He'd completely forgotten that today was the day people leave for the Hunger Games. Everything going on at the mines and the stress of Hartson's crew bullying him just took over, it seems.

He looks up at Hartson and wipes at his face a final time. His cheeks are still slippery, but at least he can see a little better. "That's today?" he whispers.

Hartson nods. "Who's going?" Cole adds.

"We don't know. But only one person is going this year—not two."

So one of his friends might not be leaving! That's a relief. He always worries that one of his friends will leave, especially since no one ever comes back. Wherever they go to stay, they don't even send messages to let everyone know how they're doing. At least now he can spend another year with his friends without worrying.

But what did Hartson mean by Cole's name being put in? He tilts his head to the side and sniffs loudly. "Why is my name in? _What's_ my name in?"

Mrs. Wyland—apparently having recovered from her hesitation—jumps in before Hartson can. "It's the Reapings, Cole," she says tiredly. "You're twelve this year, so your name will be in the bowl for the Hunger Games."

His eyes bulge. "But I don't want to go to the Hunger Games."

"No one does, Cole. But it'll only be until you're nineteen, and then you won't have to worry about it ever again."

"What about Ciera?"

Now it's Mrs. Wyland's turn to stare at him in surprise. "What about her?"

"Is she in the bowl too?"

"Heavens, no!" Mrs. Wyland sighs. "She's only ten."

So Ciera isn't in the bowl because she's too young? Cole thinks he follows. For the next seven years he'll have a chance to go to the Hunger Games, just like everyone else his age. But why would no one want to go? Aside from the obvious separation from family and friends, that is. And why is Hartson so worried?

"Why is today a bad day to talk about me, then?" he asks. He's looking at Hartson, waiting patiently for an answer; after all, the man had been the one to object to the conversation because of the Hunger Games.

But Hartson doesn't even look at Cole. If anything, he's talking pointedly to Mrs. Wyland as he growls, "Because if you don't get Reaped and I let you go, you'll be left on the streets."

It takes a few seconds for the words to sink in for Cole. He doesn't immediately make the connection of losing not only his job as a canary, but also his only home. He doesn't immediately realise how horrible this situation truly is. But when Cole does, he breaks out in a full body shaking fit. He jumps out of his seat in a panic, frantically checking the stern expressions on Mrs. Wyland and Hartson's faces. They just keep staring at each other, glaring.

Cole really doesn't know what to do outside of begging, and that's exactly what he does as the silence stretches on. "Please don't kick me out!"

Mrs. Wyland doesn't look at him as he drapes himself over the desk. "I'll be good, Mrs. Wyland! Please! I don't want to leave!"

"You won't," Hartson announces.

"But—"

"Cole." Mrs. Wyland nods to the door. "Why don't you go get ready for the Reaping? Mr. Flare and I will continue this in private."

He really wants to argue. He doesn't want to be kicked out of the room at the last minute and left out of the loop. What if he can defend himself? What if he misses a chance to say something that'll convince Mrs. Wyland to give him a second chance? He could still bring something to the table here!

But instead of an argument, only the most pitiful of sounds crawls out his throat. Cole's back to wiping at his face with his shirt, scuttling out of the room as best he can without tripping. The door clicks shut behind him, silence on the other side.

* * *

"Good luck today, Cole." Ciera pats his shoulder. "Mrs. Wyland said we won't be standing lose enough to wave to you, but I'm gonna wait for you at the bakery afterwards. Okay?"

Cole takes in a deep breath and nods. "Okay," he says. Ciera gives him a big grin, pleased at their plans as she skips away from the lines. Cole is left alone, stuck in between two older kids as the line slowly progresses. Even with so many people around him, where he's in his element, Cole feels completely and utterly alone.

Everyone around him is so gloomy and frowning. They're all dressed in their best clothes, even if the fabric has been torn and stained, and all around him he sees kids rubbing at their fingers almost anxiously. Cole looks down at his own hands. Is there a rule about having clean hands for the Hunger Games? Why didn't anyone tell him? He doesn't want to get in trouble and feel worse than he already does…

The line moves forward again, albeit only but a few feet. Behind him, kids from the Seam start to trickle into the lines and form a large bulk of the children present. Even though Mrs. Wyland has to take everyone to see the Reapings, Cole's never actually been kept close enough to really see just how many kids participate—or how many kids are actually from the Seam. Cole wonders just how much he doesn't know about District 12 despite being born and raised here.

A bony finger taps his shoulder, startling him away from the lines next to his own. Cole whirls on his feet to face the boy behind him. He's definitely a Seam kid, older than Cole by maybe a few years, and the sympathetic look reminds him so much of Nirav. If the boy's skin had been darker and his eyes almost black, he'd wonder if the two were related.

"This your first time?" the boy asks. Cole clutches at his shirt nervously and nods. "Don't worry, they don't pull out twelve-year-olds often. And the desk stuff?" He nods to the desk at the front of the line, where another kid is having her name read out to her. "The pain only lasts for a second, and if you suck on the finger for a while it'll stop bleeding just as fast."

"B—" Cole can feel himself paling. "Bleeding?"

The boy nods. "They just prick your finger to make sure you're who you say you are," he explains. "A lot of kids don't get warned, so it hurts a lot more when it happens. Just make sure to give them your non-dominant hand."

And then the boy just drops out of the conversation. Cole stares up at him, gobsmacked. Bleeding? Pain? No wonder no one likes being entered into the Hunger Games.

The line takes a good few minutes to shorten until finally Cole has to go through the horrifying process. There's a little box on the desk that has a small dent in it—the perfect size to fit a finger. Cole swallows the lump in his throat and walks over to the woman behind the desk.

"C—Cole Aish," he tries. The woman looks up from her paperwork blankly. Cole tries again. "I'm Cole—"

"Oh, sweetie, no." The woman waves him off and reaches for his hand. Cole flinches, but doesn't pull his wrist from her grip as she moves his fingers to the box. "You need to put your finger here—" _Sharp pain, it stings so much, he's going to bleed to death._ "—and all over! That wasn't so hard, was it?"

Cole bites his lip as he stares at the small drop of blood well up on his finger. He's never going to get used to this.

"Just go stand with the other boys your age over there," the woman goes on. "Hurry on, now!"

He limps over as fast he can, still watching the blood on his finger. It's so _red_ and _round_. How can all the other kids sit through that every year? How will _Ciera_ cope with that? Cole shudders at the thought as he sucks on the small wound.

The mayor takes the stage alongside a woman with fiery red hair piled up in a beehive. He introduces her as Buttercup, the new escort for District 12, and immediately Cole is lost in the explanation. All these complicated terms and new things to absorb, and it's all being thrown at him faster than he can properly learn it. Cole has no choice but to listen idly and just wait for everything to be over.

After a good while of talking, a commotion breaks out from the adults around the kids. Cole wipes his finger on his shirt, satisfied that it's no longer bleeding, and pushes himself up onto the tops of his toes. It's hard to see over the taller kids, but Cole can just barely make out what's happening onstage. Buttercup looks about ready to dip her hand into a large glass bowl, the only thing stopping her being another person storming onstage. Whispers break out all around, all of them sounding appalled.

Cole almost trips over his own feet to get a better look. He catches a glimpse of a miner's uniform before he crashes into the boy in front of him, but Buttercup seems intent on letting the crowd know what's going on anyway. A loud smack resounds from the stage, followed by what Cole thinks is, "How dare you."

Buttercup taps the microphone and clears her throat. "Ladies and gentlemen, it would seem the mentor organised for this year has dropped out. Haymitch Abernathy has requested that we… That we _acknowledge_ District Twelve's only other living victor."

A chorus of boos sound out. All around Cole he can hear death threats and slurs, words he'd never heard before today—but deep down, something in him knows they're hurtful and _wrong_. Cole rocks back and forth on the spot as the harsh words fill his head. If this happens at every Hunger Games, he never wants to go through this again.

The yelling slowly dies down until barely even whispers remain. Cole's hands are shaking from how tightly he holds onto his shirt. He keeps his gaze on the ground, focusing entirely on his breathing as Buttercup resumes her previous task.

There's a moment of silence before a name is called out, and Cole startles once he realises he missed who'd been called for. He looks around with a frown, waiting for someone to step out from their line.

"Cole Aish?"

Cole stands up straight, alert. "Yes?" he calls back.

The kids around him move away as the men and women in white come over. Cole watches them with wide eyes. Are they coming for him? Is he the one who was chosen?

They pull him from the line by both hands, barely fazed by his struggles as he tries to escape. Cole's legs just drag along the ground without much friction. He looks left and right, calling out for Mrs. Wyland to help him, but no reply comes. Once Cole can see Buttercup up onstage, most of his panic starts to melt away. Just a few feet away from her is a familiar face he'd been hoping to see again, a sympathetic smile on his face as he gazes down at Cole.

As soon as the men and women in white let him go, Cole runs straight for Nirav and leaps into his arms. He doesn't know why Nirav is onstage or why Buttercup is glaring at him like he's done the most heinous thing in the world, but he's glad someone he knows is here for him. Nirav hugs him tightly and pats him on the head, kneeling down by Cole's side as the Reapings concluded.

He doesn't want to go. He really doesn't want to leave, especially when no one in the past has come back. He has friends here and he wants to keep working as Hartson's canary. But at least Nirav is with him, ready to hold his hand every step of the way.

* * *

 **And that's the chapter! We're done with the District reapings, all that's left is the Capitol kids! Before we get to them there's going to be two chapters detailing the mentors and how they won, but they'll be uploaded together in a double update when the time comes. Till then, here's the chapter question!**

 **QQ #7: Do you know what the common theme of all the escorts' names is? (Don't worry, it'll be revealed in the first interlude!)**

 **Till next time!**


	14. Odds

**Heyooo we've got our interludes! A look at how the mentors fared in their Games and a better impression of how they were shaped from them. I'll be uploading the second part of this intermission in a few hours, definitely under a day's time, so enjoy!**

* * *

 **13 - Odds**

 **Atticus Clarke, 12, District 1 - The 75th Games**

The cannon fires as another opponent falls. More blood on his hands, on his blade. One less Tribute to worry about.

When Atticus volunteered, he never expected it to be this easy. No one has more experience than him, no one will be taller or stronger than him. He's a star among the sponsors. Soon he'll be making history as the youngest victor of any Hunger Games—for now and forever. It's all so _easy_.

He wipes the blade of the scimitar along the sleeve of his jacket. He's not fond of the design—too form-fitting, too restrictive—but at least it's dark enough to hide blood. No one would know if he was injured. No one would know how much blood is on his hands by now. The body of the girl from 7 just sinks slowly into the mud, almost ready to be consumed by the waters of the swamp. She won't vanish, though; as soon as Atticus leaves, the Capitol will retrieve her.

So he turns on his heel and smiles to himself. He'll only get in the way of the staff if he stays, and he has much better things to think about.

The cornucopia isn't far, easy enough to return to when he follows the stone path he'd made for himself after the bloodbath. It's been a good four days since he constructed the path and made fakes to trick anyone hoping to sneak up on him—but it seems that the remaining seven Tributes are smarter than he'd anticipated. No one's dared to test a path, even as they witness him use the stones himself. It brings a light, easygoing feeling to Atticus's stomach. At least he knows he'll be safe atop his castle—the cornucopia—while the peasants dispose of each other beneath him.

He climbs up the rope dangling from one side just as a hover plane enters the arena. Atticus is halfway up the cornucopia when he looks over his shoulder at the girl from 7; the large shovel lowers to the ground, scooping her up with a simultaneously delicate and rough heave. Swamp water and mud drips off of the shovel and her arms as they dangle freely in the air, and then within a mere minute she and the hover place disappear into the distance.

Atticus whistles to himself once he's comfortably atop the cornucopia once more. That's three kills under his belt—a bit of an underperformance for a District 1 volunteer, but there's still plenty of time to rectify that. It's not like having the most kills even matters, too. All this time he'd assumed all a Tribute needed was a good weapon and extraordinary wits, maybe even an alliance to solidify their survival after the first few days. But the Third Quell has definitely been an eye-opener.

All a Tribute really needs is sponsors. Lots and lots of sponsors.

Bat your eyelids and smile sweetly into the camera, and the Capitol will be putty in your hands. As much as they love this bloodsport, it's always going to be the most appealing Tribute who comes out victorious. The boy from 2 looked like a good contender to win during training sessions, but he'd fallen flat when it came to his interview and looking good during the Tribute Parade. Now that Atticus knows the _real_ trick to winning the Games, he isn't at all surprised that the boy from 2 died on the second day.

He lays back against the warmth of the cornucopia. Scattered about the rest of the roof are opened canisters, each one containing a gift he has yet to use. Things like the jacket and ropes were easy to find uses for, but Atticus has still yet to figure out how a foothold trap is going to help him in a swamp. Won't it rust if he puts it in the mud? And worse yet, won't the kids hiding among the vines see where he puts it?

At least the food they send him is useful. It saves him from leaving the safety of the cornucopia and hunting for his own rations. The crackers may be bland and the water may be too bubbly for his tastes, but he's doing a whole world better than the fools hiding from him.

Atticus reaches for a cracker, nibbling on it lazily as he stares up at the sky. If the Quell keeps going the way it has been, he's going to win. No one else has received sponsorships—hell, the only canisters that drop from the sky go in his direction—and it'll only be a matter of time before that makeshift alliance in the trees turns against itself.

He may as well have won on the first day.

* * *

 **Synthia Quanta, 15, District 3 - The 96th Games**

"Is she going to fall for it?"

"I don't know. But what choice do we have?"

Fern inhales deeply. He fixes his grip on his axe, gaze unwavering as he watches the clearing ahead of them.

Synthia was lucky to find the grotto when she did. The girl from 4 was relentless with tracking them down, and with only an axe, a dagger, and some rope to make a snare trap, the duo were really starting to run out of options. But now they have a chance—it's just the final three, and the only thing standing between Synthia and a one-way ticket home is that damned fish girl and her spear.

It's completely silent on the other side of the opening, the water still even as Synthia and Fern tremble in the ankle-deep shallows. It's freezing once anyone leaves the water on the outside. Why they didn't stay submerged while they waited in the cave, Synthia will never know.

(She does know. But thinking about it will make her expression betray her intentions. She can't afford that now, not when she's so _close_.)

As the sun begins to dip under the horizon, its orange glow no longer reaching within the grotto, Synthia and Fern hold their breaths. Once night falls the water seems to almost glow; anything within is basically invisible to anyone outside, but the duo had figured out quickly that the outside is still clear as day to those submerged. Irma will be able to sneak up on them like the predator she is in the water.

And Fern seems to know this as well. "Did we conceal it well enough?" he asks shakily. The brave, knightly persona he's tried to keep up for the past week is starting to crumble. Synthia had thought at first that he was excited, but it turns out Fern is just as scared as the rest of them. All the talk about defending his allies no matter what and being capable of winning the Games, and he's already shaking in his boots over the idea of improvising off of a failed plan.

So Synthia plays along. That's been the whole point of keeping Fern around—if he thinks she's even more scared than he is, his hero complex will kick in and keep both of them alive just a few hours longer. "I don't know," she chokes. "I can't see it anymore."

Fern shakes his head. He gets into a battle stance, axe held partially over his shoulder in preparation to strike. "Stand closer to the edge. If she gets past me, you'll have time to run while she pulls herself out."

She doesn't argue. Boy has a point, after all.

The light from the moon illuminates the opening as the stars appear one by one. Synthia purses her lips tightly and clutches at her dagger. It can't end here. She's come so far for a scrawny girl from 3. She's meant to make _history_ for her District. The timing has to be just right; the plan has to go _just so_. There's no room for error. Any mistakes now will kill her.

The water shifts. Both she and Fern inhale sharply, the sounds echoing in the grotto as the ripples move closer. It has to be Irma. _It has to be_. The last of the mutts released into the ocean have fled or been killed off— _it's Irma, she knows it!_

A larger ripple breaks through the water. Irma's tracks are halted, splashes of water suddenly flying up into the air as thick, heavy ropes slowly lift her just a breath away from the surface. Irma struggles inside the net, desperately trying to pull herself up for air.

Synthia smirks. The net will only weigh her down more and more and eventually tangle her to the point of immobility. The plan is going just as she'd hoped. _She's not dead yet_.

A relieved laugh comes from Fern. He lowers his axe and wipes at his brow with the back of his hand. There's a dumb grin on his face, the kind of grin Synthia used to make whenever her dad's stunts actually succeeded.

And just as Fern turns to celebrate with her, she plunges her dagger through his neck.

He's still for a second, shocked but unable to process why. Synthia tries to yank the dagger out in one swift movement, but it's stuck fast thanks to the suction between blade and flesh. Synthia rolls her eyes. "For fuck's sake," she mutters. She grabs the hilt of the dagger with both hands and kicks violently out at Fern's stomach. The dagger comes free with great reluctance, and Fern topples like a pile of bricks.

As he floats over towards the still-struggling Irma, Fern finally begins to choke on his own blood and clutch at his throat. It's leaking everywhere, staining the water and casting a crimson glow against the walls of the grotto. It's a rather nice colour. Synthia hopes she can remember it vividly enough to recreate it when she gets home.

She sits down at the edge of the water and dunks her feet in, releasing quite possibly the most contented sigh she's ever felt. The only thing ruining this moment of calm is the thrashing and the gurgling in front of her, but they'll die down soon. It'll take ten minutes for Irma to drown in the salt water, and Fern will be lucky to bleed out before then. She doubts it, though.

Synthia kicks at the water, smiling at the red that slithers between her toes. "I think I might get a bird with my victors' allowance," she muses. Fern lets out a confused gurgle in response. He tries to float in her direction, but Synthia deftly kicks him back towards Irma. "I've always wanted a bird."

* * *

 **Adam Jackson, 17, District 5 - The 58th Games**

Amazing. Absolutely amazing. He never thought he'd see a day where the dead came back to greet him, especially not here. Not in this beautiful garden, not as he climbs atop the hedges and surveys the surrounding area.

Adam grins from ear to ear at the sight. The first one, back from the dead to try and exact revenge. Adam thinks he might squeal at the thought!

He stumbles over his own feet as he hobbles along the hedge. Twice his ankle slips into the bush, but he's quick enough to recover and keep his gaze on that beautiful, _beautiful_ mutt. It's not every year that they release them upon the Tributes and broadcast the havoc. It's not every year that they use Tribute DNA, either. To have his cake and eat it, only to have another—better than the last—put before him? Adam is positively _euphoric_.

It hasn't noticed him yet, too busy tearing into the leg of the 10 girl. Little Lulu Banks struggles and screams, kicking at the mutt with her free foot to no avail. She's called out to Adam twice now, but he's not interested in her. Too scrawny and tiny, too easy to overpower—it'd be just as boring as Mica from 12. But the mutt, on the other hand…

It growls and shakes its head about like a dog trying to pull a toy from its owner. Adam chuckles to himself at the sight of it. It thinks Lulu's leg is a toy. How cute! He lofts his mace over his shoulder and grins down at the sight with glee.

"Please!" Lulu screeches. "Please, help me!"

"Shush," Adam hisses. The mutt snarls and growls even more, finally tearing into Lulu's skin and splattering blood on the both of them. Adam covers his mouth with his hand, moved almost to tears by the sight. It's really, truly playing with her!

Adam wants to take it with him if he wins. Such a beautiful creature, born from the remains of Sam Corduroy and given the form of a sadistic, spiteful beast. It's a match made in heaven, and he will _not_ have such a perfect pet be taken from him.

With a deep breath, Adam cups a hand around his mouth and shouts up to the sky, "I want that mutt as a pet!"

Seconds pass, filled only by Lulu's screams and the mutt's snarling, before a response comes over the speakers. " _We cannot allow that, Adam Jackson. Please resume the Games._ "

Adam clicks his tongue. He'll have to find a way around it. One way or another, he was leaving this arena with the Sam Corduroy muttation.

He slides over the edge of the hedge before dropping gracefully onto the ground, just a good few feet away from Lulu and her backpack. Some of its contents had spilled over when the mutt latched onto her. Adam can definitely see the use in taking a few of those rations after this.

Lulu reaches for him. Adam just shrugs at her and picks up her bag. He may as well take the whole thing with him instead of sifting through it. It'll save him some time, at least, and he'll be able to focus more on the mutt with that free time. He zips up the bag and slings it over his shoulder, still ignoring Lulu's sobs as the mutt drags her further away.

He looks the mutt up and down for a moment. He really does want to keep it alive and take it out with him, but the officials definitely won't let him. Maybe he can take a piece of it from its corpse and sneak it out? That'd be pretty fun, but those stylists would probably smell it and throw it away. Damn perfectionists…

With a heavy sigh, Adam raises his mace above his head. He takes one, two steps towards Lulu and wastes no time swinging the weapon down against her head. The screams cease abruptly, the mace now slick with blood as he yanks it out of her caved-in skull. The mutt drags the now limp body away from Adam somewhat, snarling territorially. He just laughs in response.

"Another time, Sam," he says affectionately. "I'll definitely bring you home with me."

And he launches himself at the mutt. It rears back in shock, releasing Lulu's leg and baring its teeth at Adam instead. Adam just laughs as he swings the mace again, smashing the mutt's midsection and sending it flying across the field of flowers. Petals and pollen fly into the air as it lands with a pained whine. Adam stalks over, mace raised above his head again.

The mutt looks up at him for a second, and Adam swears he sees something in those bright blue eyes. Recognition. Fear. Despair. Like Sam Corduroy is here more than just in genetics, but also in memory. Like this mutt knows just what bloody fate awaits it when Adam brings down that mace.

"We deserve this," Adam says finally. He brings down the mace onto the mutt's head, smashing it in one blow and staining the field of violets with red.

There's silence for a few seconds before Adam hears it: The howling of another mutt, followed by the screams of another Tribute. He runs a hand over his face as he laughs to himself, shaking his head in disbelief.

"I'm going to bring _all of you_ home with me."

* * *

 **Magnolia Hammond, 15, District 7 - The 95th Games**

The screams are too much. They're coming from all around, suffocating her and making her knees weaker by the second. She thought she could handle the bloodbath. She thought she'd be fine if she established herself with the Careers. She thought that maybe, just maybe, she'd be able to stomach those first few minutes.

But Maggie can't leave her pedestal. She just sinks to her knees, hands clamped over her ears as the blood flies in all direction. Maggie wasn't prepared for this. No matter what Yarne had said, there was _nothing_ he could do to prepare her properly for this.

A head flies across the cornucopia, knocking over a small backpack that one of the outer District kids had been reaching for. He recoils with a screech, kicking the head and trying to crawl away. And then Antigone Pierce is hurtling over another body, stabbing him through the chest with her sword. Tiggs makes it look easy, the way she kicks him to the ground and snatches the backpack. The way she just turns on her heel and throws a dagger at the girl from District 3, piercing her throat with ease. Tiggs makes it look so, so easy.

About seven people have died so far—three of them thanks to Tiggs. Only fifteen and she's leading the pack, her battle strategy working miracles for them. The Careers who excel with speed and nimbleness are quickly throwing off the taller Tributes, while the ones with cutthroat precision dispatch them. Maggie's supposed to be in there, taking down the physically stronger Tributes. That was her role—the tank, Tiggs called her.

Funny how the "special" outer District Tribute had become the weakest link. But at least Tiggs prepared backup plans.

An eighth falls, half of his face torn apart. The boy from 1 stands over him with a tiger's claw tucked snugly around his fingers. What was the boy's name again? Maggie had never really associated much with them—well, more like _they_ never associated with _her_. Tiggs had been the only one to see her worth and invite her to the pack. Everyone else just avoided her.

She thinks his name might be Ermine, like those fancy coats. It was something to do with clothing, but she never paid much attention to what some of them were called. She wouldn't be surprised if it is Ermine, though; District 1 always did love those pretentious names.

Ermine looks over at her and shakes his head. There's clearly disappointment in his expression. A quick glance to Tiggs makes it known that she too is on the receiving end of that disdain. He gives the boy on the ground an extra tear along his face for good measure, and then with no hesitation whatsoever Ermine turns for Tiggs.

Panic bubbles in Maggie's chest. He's not going to turn on Tiggs, is he? She's helped them make it this far! He can't be! But soon that panic turns to dread as Ermine suckerpunches Tiggs square in the jaw, catching her off-guard and knocking the poor girl to the ground. Tiggs yells something to Ermine, only to stop and stare up at him in horror. That horror soon turns into anger.

Tiggs tries to fight back, but Ermine swipes down at her with his tiger's claws. Maggie watches hopelessly as the claws skim over Tiggs's throat, cutting it open and leaving the girl curled up on the floor of the cornucopia in an attempt to top her bleeding.

Maggie doesn't know when she started running, but she's all too aware of when she tackles Ermine to the ground and slams her fist hard into his nose. His arms flail about as his nose, his cheekbones, his jaw start to break with each blow. Maggie's screaming hoarsely at him—how _dare_ he turn on Tiggs like that!—even as Ermine stops moving altogether. Even as his face becomes unrecognisable to even the other Careers who pull her off him, she still demands blood.

She's sobbing when they throw her in Tiggs's direction. They all want to help, but they know Tiggs is a goner. Instead, the remaining three members of their pack pull Ermine out from the cornucopia and leave him where the Gamemakers can collect him. Maggie refuses to look over at him. Instead she pulls Tiggs into her arms and presses down against her wounds. There _has_ to be a way to help.

Tiggs convulses helplessly. Her fingers dig through Maggie's shirt, an almost resigned look on her face as the seconds pass. No fifteen-year-old should have that expression. No _child_ should be so accepting of death like this.

"You're gonna be okay, Tiggs," Maggie says hurriedly. Tiggs shakes her head. More blood seeps out between Maggie's fingers, making her hand too slick to keep in place.

"Keep—" Tiggs tries. Her voice is weak, blood just spurting out with every attempt at talking. "C—Control—"

Maggie tries to smile. It hurts so much to pretend. "You'll keep leading us, don't worry!"

Tiggs shakes her head again. "Control an—" She coughs loudly enough to attract attention from the rest of the pack. Blood flies from her mouth and lands just shy of Maggie's eyes. " _Anger_."

"Tiggs, I can't—"

"D—Don't f—f—feel." Tiggs's fingers feel like tight clamps, numbing Maggie's arm. " _Act_."

Tiggs doesn't say anything else after that. The pack gathers around, patting Maggie's shoulder as the slow, painful minutes leading up to Tiggs's death pass. Tiggs's District partner offers to carry her outside the cornucopia. It's obviously hard for him to accept her death too—Tiggs was a prodigy in their District, after all.

Eventually it's the duo from 4 who take her outside. Maggie's left sitting in the same spot, Tiggs's blood all over her hands, her face, her clothes. It's too much. She was never prepared for _this_.

The boy from 2 inhales deeply. He's sitting on one of the crates deeper within the cornucopia, tapping his heel anxiously against the ground.

"I didn't think he'd do it," he mutters. "I thought he was just trying to impress everyone. I didn't think he'd…"

Maggie didn't act soon enough. It's all because of Maggie that Tiggs is dead—Ermine probably wanted to stage a mutiny against Tiggs if Maggie couldn't handle the Games. It's all _Maggie's_ fault.

"I'm sorry, Tiggs." Her lip trembles. Her fingers feel sticky as she clenches her hands into fists. "Please forgive me, Tiggs."

* * *

 **Rye Coven, 16, District 9 - The 99th Games**

"How're you holding up, kiddo?" Rye pulls him along reassuringly.

Chia sniffs as he wipes at his eyes. "'M fine," he mumbles.

"You're not." She stops, pushing him behind her as she checks around the corner. They've been lucky to make it this far, but now that they're in the final four they can't afford mistakes. District 9's never had both Tributes survive for this long in one year. With some luck, maybe Malvolia will let them both go home.

"What do you want me to say, Rye?" Chia snaps. She squeezes his hands tightly, eliciting a squeak of pain from the twelve-year-old. He needs to keep it down, for crying out loud! "How can anyone be okay after all this?" he adds in a whisper.

"Bliss from One certainly looks okay," Rye mutters.

"She's a monster. Of course she'd be okay."

Rye stifles a laugh. "Monster" is a new one. Definitely a tamer insult compared to what this year's Tributes have called Bliss Hartshorn. She's been a dead ringer to win this year, and yet nobody—not even her partner—likes her from even a distance.

There's no movement ahead of them. Rye exhales softly and pulls Chia along. This maze is going to be the end of them, but at least they won't be the only ones who get lost here.

"Rye?"

"Hm?"

"What're you gonna do when you get home?"

Rye considers her answer for a second. She's never really had a lot of things she's wanted, but with the status of victor and that handsome allowance… Well, she could get into all sorts of mischief. Maybe even lobby a protest against those Avox replacement plans the President loves so much. That'd definitely solidify her place in District 9's history.

"Dunno," she mutters. "You?"

"I want a giant chocolate tart," Chia whispers. "The good kind. With the Belgian chocolate they make in the Capitol and a strawberry on top."

She chuckles softly. "Ambitious."

"I like chocolate tarts."

Loud footsteps come from a short distance away—the next corner? A little beyond? Rye's mind goes into overdrive. Wherever they're coming from, they're heading right for the duo. Are there any corners the two can hide in? Can she try hoist Chia up atop the maze walls? No, he's too short to reach even _if_ she could hold him up that long.

Rye takes short, quick breaths. She's screwed. She's screwed, she's screwed, she's screwed. She can't just leave Chia behind and save herself—not when their entire _home_ is watching—and she knows she can't fight off the Tributes left behind. How is she supposed to take down a boy from 7 and a Career?

More footsteps. "Who's there?" someone yells—definitely the 7. Rye squeezes Chia's hand tightly. Of _course_ it's the boy from 7 who approaches. At least he was stupid enough to give away how far away he is. If Rye's correct, he'll be around the corner after this one, close to the path that leads to the cornucopia.

A cannon fires. Chia squeaks in surprise, while Rye coughs as she chokes on her own breaths. Was that the cannon for the Career? Did the boy from 7 take them out? The footsteps turn into hard, thundering stomps. He's sprinting to them, probably ready to take them down and win the 99th Games.

Rye shakes her head. She'll have to make do with making history the bad way. District 9 will get over it eventually.

Rye hauls Chia forward and shoves him in front of her. The two careen around the corner, Chia's confused yelps drowning out the boy from 7 for just a second. He tries to turn around and face her, demanding to know what's wrong and why they're running towards their predator. Rye just hisses at him to shut up.

She snatches the spear from his hand and throws him around the corner. She watches as the axe lands in his shoulder, his screams distracting the 7 for _just long enough_. Rye whirls around the corner and shoves the spear through Chia's neck—and keeps pushing until it pierces the 7 boy's eye, digging further and further into his head.

Chia, stuck to the now dead boy, falls to the ground with him once Rye releases the spear. All he can do is stare up at her and sob grossly. Were Rye actually concerned, she'd comfort him in his dying moments.

But she's always hated kids his age.

"Suck it!" she yells up at the sky. "'A surefire bloodbath,' my _ass_!"

If the Districts had the ability to send voice messages into the arena, she knows exactly what they'd say to her. They'd call her any number of names, shun her and treat her like crap. But she's done them some good today. She's kept them from becoming even poorer than they already are.

With a deep breath, she lifts her head up high and shrieks, " _Now keep those godforsaken tongueless slaves out of my District!_ "

* * *

 **Barley Tanton, 13, District 11 - The 97th Games**

He wishes there were trees like this in District 11. Large, beautiful, and helpful to those who take take of it. A tree with a conscience.

Normally Barley would think himself doomed in a situation like this. A large underground escape, with its own ecosystem and a huge tree at the heart of it? The cornucopia just below him with Careers scouring the area for easy prey? He'd be dead by now under normal circumstances. Probably even a bloodbath.

But luck must be on his side. He was lucky enough to go unnoticed during all the chaos. He was lucky enough to have experience climbing trees back home. He was lucky enough to discover this… _sentient_ tree's secret.

Not even his partner figured it out. The way the leaves would change colour, like an indicator of mood. The way fruit would grow overnight, as though offering its bounty to those in need. The way those vines snake around Barley as he sleeps, holding him safely in place and warding off Careers who remember his existence. It took only two days to figure it out—by accident, albeit—and now he's at day nine, a potential for the top eight. All thanks to his fumble with a water canteen.

Chaff had been right about kids from 11 being the children of the trees. Barley just never thought it could be counted so literally.

He nibbles silently at the peach in his hand as the day goes on. It's been quiet so far, the Careers having left the cornucopia to hunt, but Barley still doesn't want to make too much noise. Even the fourteen-year-old in the pack seems to notice the slightest of sounds, the smallest of changes. There's no telling how quickly they'll find him if they hear him slurp the juice from the peach or shift around on the branch. Barley can't complain about the restraint over the amount of noise he can make; compared to what Constance does to him when he stutters, he feels a lot more safer in this arena with nature to protect him.

A soft breeze rustles the leaves around him. They glow a gorgeous, calm blue, shimmering like scales on a fish as they weave about. Barley watches with a smile. It's soothing, looking at the leaves. There's just something aesthetically pleasing about them despite how unnatural they are. Obviously the tree was cultivated over time and had genes spliced over and over into it—Miss Amos made sure to brag about that when Barley asked about the arenas in his interview. But it feels like the one nice thing the Capitol has cooked up in a lab since the Hunger Games began. No mutt would coddle and calm him like this; no mutt would have a grasp of giving and taking in equal amounts.

Once he finishes the peach, he stuffs the pit into the small opening in front of him. For the past few days that opening has been where he gets and gives food. The tree would tightly wrap the seeds of a finished fruit in its vines, waiting for Barley to share his water with it, and then the next morning another one would be ready for consumption. He watches as small brown vines snake around the pit, tightly grasping it before loosening enough to let in some air. Barley hums with interest at the sight. He shuffles about on the branch, trying to reach his water canteen from his bag.

"Hey!"

Barley freezes. He knows that voice—it's one of the Careers. Why are they back so soon? How did he not hear them giggling about like they always do? Barley looks down in a panic, clinging to the trunk of the tree as he searches for the Career.

It's the fourteen-year-old, already stuffing the blade of his dagger between his teeth as he starts to climb the cornucopia. It won't take long for him to reach the low-hanging branch Barley climbed up on. If Barley doesn't move soon, he'll be dead for sure.

As he scurries with a squeak, the leaves around him slowly start to dim. From sky blue to navy, and then pitch black—the colour of the tree's rage. He's seen the leaves turn black once before, when the boy from District 7 tried to chop off one of its branches for firewood. He knows what's going to happen if the tree intervenes in this chase.

"Get down here, coward!" the Career grunts. He's already closing the distance between himself and Barley, climbing faster than Barley had anticipated. Barley's foot slips on the groove he'd stuffed it into, crashing onto the branch beneath him with only his arms holding him up. His chest hurts, there's no air in his lungs, and he thinks he may have bruised something—and more than that, the Career is within an arm's reach of his dangling feet.

He feels the hand latch onto his ankle and starts to sob. He doesn't want to die—he just wants to go back to being by his brother's side, Constance or no, and just _forget_ the year he turned thirteen ever existed.

"I've got you—"

"P—Please!" Barley sobs. He shakes his feet as hard as he can, but the Career's grip remains. "G—Go aw—way!"

He kicks down once, twice, sobbing harder and harder with each blow. After the fifth kick, the Career's grip loosens. The tree shifts, the branches and bark groaning as the vines snake around Barley's arms and waist and try to hoist him up.

"What the hell—?" is all the Career can get in before Barley kicks him off entirely. He falls, screaming as he descends upon the cornucopia. Barley expects to hear a loud crash, bones cracking and snapping.

But all he hears is a branch nearby groan, a vine cracking like a whip, and the sounds of desperate choking from the Career as he hangs from his noose.

* * *

 **And that's the odd-numbered District mentors! Like I said earlier, the second half will come up later in the day. So here's our Quell Question for this chapter till then!**

 **QQ #8:** Which of this batch of mentors is your favourite and why?

 **And as promised, I'll also give out the answer to last chapter's QQ: All of the escorts are named after either a brand or type of cheese!**


	15. Evens

**"In a few hours," he says, and then passes out for a good 12 hours. At least we're done with the mentor intermission, which means the Capitol is next!**

* * *

 **14 - Evens**

 **Felix Brough, 18, District 2 - The 77th Games**

Temptation is going to ruin him.

Of all the things to become his shortcoming, it had to be survival skills. He'd been so certain that he wouldn't need to worry about it—hell, even Camille had said he didn't need to worry about how to hunt—and now it's going to kill him. Everything's going wrong this year, and it's all leading up to his lack of hunting experience.

Felix despises it.

First he loses the cornucopia to a split faction in _his_ pack. Stupid Constance and her stupid charismatic bullshit. He hopes all of those mutinous little shits suffer when she makes a mistake. And _then_ he gets chased by a small group of outer kids, left to hole up in a trench and cower in fear—Felix, District 2's shining example of power! And after the last four days of hunger and thirst, no sponsorship packages in sight, he's hitting his wits end.

One of the kids accidentally discovered him, and he'd been quick to silence him to keep the others off his trail. The body's yet to be collected—perhaps a malfunction in the kid's tracking chip?—and the raw flesh peeking through his skin is _tempting_ Felix.

He doesn't know how those kids in 11 and 12 do it. How do they not riot and eat each other? How do they not go wild and raid the Peacekeeper food supplies? How do they just _accept_ all the pain and exhaustion? Felix doesn't know if he can last another day of going without food, and yet these… _peasants_ do it for years at a time!

A spark of pain lights up in his stomach again, and this time he can feel a churning beneath the ache. He's heard stories about the stomach consuming itself after a period without food, but he's never actually found out if it's true. It'd be such a painful way to go, wasting away as you're consumed by yourself from the inside out. A messed up, real example of the snake that consumed its own tail.

But Felix could avoid it. They still haven't collected the boy in front of him, and there's still time to make use of the meat. He's put up with raw meat before—he even prefers his meat to be medium-rare, bordering on just plain rare—but he's never entertained how eating human meat would go down. He could curb the hunger for just a few hours, maybe a day if he's lucky. He wouldn't have to find out whether or not the stomach really does consume itself after a time.

Wait. He breathes heavily through his nose as he stares down the body. Wasn't this a situation another Tribute was put in recently? Someone from 6, right? Felix's hands start to tremble. Titus Lionhart, right? The notorious cannibal who was offed by the Gamemakers?

He shakes his head. Titus died because he attacked the people who collected the bodies, Felix reminds himself. Surely in a killing game like this, eating each other wasn't vetoed. But as the seconds pass and his stomach hurts more and more, thoughts of Titus's gruesome death flood his mind. What if Titus died because of the _cannibalism_? What if they try to off Felix for doing the same? He's stuck in this trench with no way out by up, so it'd be easy for them to take him down.

Felix doesn't want to die here. He's worked too hard to get this far, to prove his parents proud and bring another victory home for his District. He won't be taken down by temptation.

With an angry huff, he hoists the body over his shoulder and slides it over the edge of the trench. The boy dangles haphazardly over Felix, looking ready to fall in at a moment's notice. But he stays in place, and Felix is given just long enough to start crawling away to a new hiding spot.

Those Gamemakers had better collect that body, because he'll be pissed if his one chance at food was just given up over mere _concern_.

* * *

 **Melvin Pike, 18, District 4 - The 86th Games**

"This is horrendous."

Melvin breathes out a laugh, the fog in his breath obscuring his vision. "You're telling me."

"I wish they'd at least given us one of those natural hot springs," Mason says. "You know those ones heated by magma or whatever?"

" _Yes_ , God." Blake wraps her blanket tighter around her shoulders. "Just shut up and stop making me feel colder than I already am."

"Sorry…"

Despite being given somewhat warm clothing, complete with underclothes fit for a mountain climb, none of Melvin's alliance could've picked this happening. Maybe a mild frost, he'd thought when his stylist sent him up. Probably a little snow to go with it.

But instead they get hit with a blizzard, instantly snow blinding Mason and leaving Melvin and Blake to struggle over keeping a fire lit for more than an hour at a time. Despite how odd the alliance had been—initially consisting of kids from 4, 5, 7 and 12—the mix-matched group served to keep them going longer. Mason's knowledge on how to light a fire from just stones had helped immensely, while Yew's knowledge of which kinds of wood burn for longer kept the fire going easier. Melvin knew how to hunt with a spear, even if no water was to be found, and the brief moments without the blizzard throwing them off course helped with gathering food. And Blake, reliable as always and holding the group together, did her best to keep them warm and healthy with her medical knowledge.

But they can only last for so long with their low expectations. They don't have enough blankets, enough animal skins from successful hunts. Yew had already perished in the snow after their last search for wood, and it's becoming apparent that the rest will follow suit soon. Blake barely had enough time to take Yew's jacket and blankets from their body before the Gamemakers took them, which left the rest of them in the same miserable situation they'd started in.

Wherever all their sponsors went after that first wave of gifts, Melvin knows they won't be coming back to help the ragtag team.

Blake shifts around, teeth chattering loudly. The tips of her fingers are turning blue, but she refuses to take the gloves Melvin had offered her. He needs his hands for hunting, she'd reasoned. She'll manage just fine with frostbite compared to him. Blake clears her throat as she watches Mason cautiously. "Do you want me to check your eyes?"

Mason looks almost uncomfortable as he hides his face in his jacket. Part of his blanket had been torn up to create a makeshift cover for his eyes, but apparently the pain hasn't gone away much yet. "It's fine," he mumbles. "It'll just hurt again if we rush it."

"They'll send us something to treat it," Melvin chimes in. "Tributes with sponsors never get left with injuries for long."

Dim green eyes look down at frostbitten fingers. Blake shakes her head. "I doubt it, Mel," she sighs. "They'd have sent something for at least one of us by now."

She has a point. But Melvin doesn't want to look away from the bright side. "M—Maybe they can't see us in here? We're pretty deep in the cave, y'know."

Blake just points above them—to the faded red light above. She doesn't need to say anything, proving everything Melvin wants to believe wrong with just one little camera.

"We're a lost cause." Mason covers his whole head with his jacket now. It's a habit Melvin noticed he has, covering his head with something when he becomes anxious. "After Yew died, they gave up on us. You should've stayed with the other Careers."

The words sting, but Mason has a point. Melvin should've stayed with the other Careers, been a good fighter like the Academy trained him to be. But after meeting all these wonderful Tributes—all these actual _people_ —staying with the Careers lost all its appeal. Why go into a game of life or death with what's essentially your bloodthirsty colleagues, when you can go out with the people you grew to care about? Why give up a friendship of a lifetime—no matter how short that lifetime may be—to take a one in five chance of being the top dog?

No. He shouldn't have stayed with the Careers. Despite how much pain they're all in from the cold, he's helped keep everyone here alive just a little bit longer—just as they've helped him with their own skills.

"Fuck the Careers," he says. "What good's a group that always wants to compensate for _everything_ , anyway?"

Mason snorts out a chuckle. Blake smiles.

"I'd rather die with you guys, anyway." Melvin smiles at them. "At least I know neither of you will turn on each other for 'glory'. We're friends, not allies. Not working under a temporary peace treaty."

Mason slowly lowers his jacket. "Friends?"

"If only the Capitol liked the 'prince and the pauper' angle," Blake jokes.

There's a small jingle in the distance, a soft glow of green descending through the snow and coming to a stop just a short distance from the cave entrance. They watch it for a few moments, half expecting someone outside to claim it. But when it just sits there, waiting for its recipient to come forward, Melvin grins.

It's a gift. They haven't been abandoned yet.

"Looks like they do, after all."

* * *

 **Barbara Thisbe, 16, District 6 - The 76th Games**

Too heavy. She can't hold on. Her eye hurts too much. Palms are sweating. Slipping, slipping. Why won't Lucy hold on?

Barbara grunts as she tries to pull Lucy up, but the older girl just smiles up at her with guilt. "Lucy, please," Barbara begs. "Don't be stupid—just grab my wrist."

Lucy just shakes her head. "It's not going to work, Barb."

Everything they'd done, all of their accomplishments—it _should_ have worked! Barbara grips Lucy's hand tighter and makes an attempt to pull herself up, but the fingers slip slowly from her grasp. Barbara shrieks and shakes her head.

They did everything Katniss and Peeta did. They played up the star-crossed lovers angle from the moment they met in training. They made it look like they were smitten with each other in their interviews—Caesar even invited Lucy back onstage when Barbara "confessed"! They played it up for the sponsors, even sewed the idea of two victors into their minds and had a petition started in their name. A _petition_!

So why won't they let them both win now?

Barbara and Lucy never wanted to kill. They just wanted to leave without any blood on their hands, and then the Gamemakers flat out refuse to let them win. If Katniss and Peeta hadn't been taken down by Cato, Barbara and Lucy might've had a chance.

And now look at them. Barbara has the blood of someone's child on her hands, the battle scars to prove it, and Lucy's throwing her own life over a cliff. Both of them deserve to leave. Even the Capitol agrees with that much.

"Lucy," Barbara whines. Lucy's smile falters just for a second, her free hand twitching as though considering grabbing on. But then it goes limp, her content mask back in place.

"I'm scared, too," Lucy says softly. "I've been scared this whole time."

Her fingers slip even more. Barbara can feel the tears breaking through her slashed eye, stinging against her wounds.

"You'd be a better victor than me, anyway. District Two would never appreciate someone who chose to win with love rather than bloodshed."

"We could go to my District." Barbara's arm is starting to hurt, but she won't let go. They'll announce the two of them as winners any minute now. They'll let them both win. "Astrid would love you—"

"She loves you more." Lucy laughs weakly.

Lucy's thumb slips free of her grip. Barbara screams for Lucy to grab her hand, reduced to begging as the pain becomes too much to bear. They may not have actually loved each other the way the Capitol thought they did, but Barbara couldn't live with herself if she let go of Lucy after all they went through. She's not sure what it is, but all the affectionate smiles and reassurance after the trauma of the Games— _something_ other than romance was there. Something good was born in this hellhole.

No one's coming. They're going to either wait for Barbara to let go, or pick up the girl who suffers less fatal injuries if they fall together. All of this was for nothing, no matter how much Barbara wants them both to leave.

And Lucy knows this as well. She's known since the last Tribute attacked them, long before the awaited announcement never came. She was already planning to get Barbara home, too selfless for District 2 and its horde of killers.

Lucy reaches up. Hope flutters in Barbara's heart. "Just grab hold," Barbara gasps. Her chest hurts now, the pain in her arm spreading to her lungs. "I'll pull you up and—"

Lucy gently caresses Barbara's hand. "It's okay to let go, Barb. I want you to."

The hope dies immediately as Lucy's finger and thumb pinch at Barbara's knuckles. Sharp pain shoots through her hand, her fingers flinching against her will, and suddenly Lucy is gone. Down into the depths of the cliff's domain, no longer by Barbara's side.

She can't even pull herself back up, half-dangling over the edge as she waits for Lucy to reappear. Moments pass, all filled with silence. And then it comes, echoing through the air like an alarm.

" _Your victor of the Seventy-Sixth Hunger Games: Barbara Thisbe of District Six!_ "

* * *

 **Charlotte Harper, 18, District 8 - The 94th Games**

In. Out. In. Out. One. Two. One. Two. _Guard the base. Kill intruders_.

Charlotte can feel her heartbeat slow to a calm rhythm, easy enough to follow with her count. Absolute calm is a necessity for what she has to do. She can't afford a misstep when so much is riding on this plan.

She lets the wind hit her back as she pulls a bow from her quiver. Her finger, calloused and sore, plucks at the bowstring experimentally. It's moving a little to the left, lightly yet strong enough to throw a lethal shot off course. Charlotte exhales deeply.

She pulls back the bowstring and watches the trees for movement. There's no doubt they'll see her aiming at them, waiting for a signal of where to aim. She knows already. But unnerving them and making them slip up just makes things easier for her.

Her fingers ache as Charlotte waits patiently. She could very easily lose focus here, if not for the mantra she'd forced herself to learn. It's helped her take down six of them so far, with just three more left trying to take her stronghold. There's nowhere else in this arena that has a better viewpoint, nor a more ideal area to snipe Tributes.

They told her to guard the base, so she is. She's guarding _her_ base. Not theirs. Not the alliance's. _Hers_.

It stopped being a shared base when they left to hunt down other Tributes.

In. Out. In. Out. One. Two. One. Two. _Incapacitate. Aim for the eye._

There's movement behind her—loud huffs, someone running towards the cornucopia with the stealth of a bull. Charlotte whirls on her feet and lets the arrow loose, praying that her instincts let it fly true.

The girl from 4 flies back onto the ground as the arrow protrudes from her mouth. It's possibly pierced something vital, Charlotte thinks, because she doesn't even get up or make a sound afterwards.

More movement. Charlotte pulls an arrow from her quiver and aims it hurriedly over her shoulder. The boy from 2 zigzags across the field, trying to throw off her aim. Charlotte scowls at him. Her frustration only grows when she hears her original target start to move.

She swears loudly and lets the arrow fly. It hits the boy from 2 in the leg, tripping him to the point of falling over his own feet. Charlotte pulls out two more arrows. She returns to her original target—the girl from 1—and takes aim with a sneer.

The arrow goes through her eye, like she'd intended, but the victory is short-lived when she hears thumps against the cornucopia.

In. Out. In. Out. One. Two. One. Two. _Keep your cool. Take your time._

She stalks over to the edge and looks down at the boy. He stares back up at her with a mixture of determination and fear in his eyes. He knows he's not likely to make it up before she strikes, but part of him hopes to regardless.

Charlotte takes another bow. She slowly pulls back the bowstring and takes her time finding an ideal body part to shoot. He just remains frozen in place, almost waiting for her to strike him down.

Straight through the eye again, sending him falling to the ground with a slump. Charlotte releases the breath she didn't even know she was holding. She leans her hands on her knees as she tries to recompose herself.

That leaves her with four arrows and one target. There's no point in fetching the rest unless the Gamemakers push her off of the cornucopia. She can go back to the waiting game.

In. Out. In. Out. One. Two. One. Two. _Don't overexert. Let them come to you._

* * *

 **Dianne Atreus, 16, District 10 - The 88th Games**

Dianne's lucky no one else is around to hear her. She's sure her distressed sobs and grunts would attract attention and get her killed, especially so soon after dodging quite possibly the worst kind of mutt imaginable. If she could just push it off of her and crawl away from its body, she'd be _great_.

She groans, makes eye contact with eight beady, black eyes, and gags loudly. This is gross, this is gross, _this is GROSS_.

"Oh geez," Dianne heaves. "Oh geez, _ohh_ geez."

It's all hairy and lanky at the legs, and then that bulbous body—God, Dianne's scared her foot is going to be lodged between its spinnerets and tangled in silk. Why did she have to be attacked by one of these disgusting things? Why did they have to choose _spiders_ to put in the arena? Why did they have to make them the size of _cows_?

At least she was only attacked by one. From what she's heard further in the arena, someone was attacked by a whole group of them. There'd been hissing at some point, though Dianne isn't sure if it came from the spiders or not. For all she knows there could be other mutts in the arena.

She finally, _finally_ pulls herself out from under the spider. It sags down on the ground as she scuttles backwards, beady eyes still boring into her like it's still alive. Dianne groans and gags again, shaking her hands, her legs, her entire body in an attempt to be rid of the disgusting feeling. If she never lays eyes on a spider ever again in her life, it'll be too soon. Dianne is quick to reach for her bag and take a deep breath to steady herself. She isn't looking at the spider now, hoping to at least keep yesterday's breakfast down for a few hours longer. She can't afford to throw up when there's so little food in the area to eat—and she'll be damned if she eats her own vomit.

There's lines Dianne would be willing to cross, but _that_ is far from one of them.

There's more screams in the distance, abruptly cutting off as more hissing follows. A cannon goes off, signalling the fall of a tribute. Dianne coughs hoarsely. That saves her the trouble of going towards the other mutts, at least.

But now she has the issue of the spider behind her. It's not like the Tributes, who are collected post-mortem; the spiders will be left behind for scavengers or for the elements, waiting to become useful in more ways that killing. Dianne's done her best to stick to her roots—"waste not, want not" killing of livestock—but she's never considered the idea of a giant arachnid being added to that list of livestock. Sure, spiders can be milked for their venom and whatever. No different from a cow or a snake being milked. But it's still unexpected.

She burps, bile threatening to rise as she faces the spider again. It looks like it might be a tarantula, which could work out in her favour. People eat those sometimes. Fry them up and whatnot. It's not ideal, but it's doable.

Dianne inhales deeply. She pulls her knife from her bag and exhales shakily. She'll be okay. It's just a dead spider. No different from a sheep or a cow.

She starts with its legs, and immediately she begins dry heaving again. Clear liquid oozes out from the cuts, coating her hand and making it sticky. The fine hairs along its leg don't make it any easier, and once the section comes off a steady stream of the liquid pours out. It starts to pool around the body, a puddle separating her from the spider. Dianne chokes out a sob. Waste not, want not, she reminds herself.

Her hands shake as she piles some sticks together for a fire. There's plenty around that are dry enough, and she can use some branches to skewer the legs. It starts out as small sparks, barely spreading along the wood as she desperately blows at the embers. Once a small fire starts, she returns to the spider's corpse.

Three legs and a section of the abdomen later, Dianne sits in front of the fire with only a sense of numbness. Her hands are sticky and wrinkled, the slowly cooking limbs almost mocking her as they continue to drip the clear liquid. She did wind up throwing up yesterday's breakfast, though she's proud to have held it in for as long as she did. It was the unfortunate slip through the liquid that sent her head-first into the chunk of opened abdomen that pushed her over the edge. She would've been fine if that hadn't happened.

The firewood pops and crackles, casting embers up into the night sky. Dianne watches them tiredly. She doesn't want to start a forest fire if she can help it. All of this would be worth _nothing_ if she wound up taken down by smoke inhalation and burns.

Dianne's not sure how long she's supposed to cook the limbs for, but she bases her judgement on how much liquid is still oozing out as time passes. The first leg is almost dry and free of the liquid, finally reduced to what she hopes is a jerky-like state. It was bad enough smelling it and touching it—she doesn't want to taste and consume that stuff as well. She yanks the branch out of the ground and stares grimly down at the leg. Hairy, lanky, hairy, lanky; she can't stop chanting the words in her head.

Waste not, want not, she reminds herself. With a trembling lip and hands, she opens her mouth and sinks her teeth into the leg.

* * *

 **Nirav Cashile, 17, District 12 - The 93rd Games**

If someone asked Nirav how he made it this far, he'd bring both hands up to his mouth and wave his index fingers about. He'd be laughed at, told that no one speaks "Avox", and then he'd continue on to garble, "'Pi'eh." They'd laugh more and more, but he'll have answered their question by then: He's alive because of spite, and spite alone.

Everything about the past two years has fueled that spite for Nirav. He goes from a budding investigative journalist in the Capitol, looking into some of the more lucrative sides of things to get a headstart, to the label of rebel and having his tongue removed. He's treated like trash, made the slave of the very man he'd tried to expose to the public—and then they send him to the Districts, a slap in the face to both himself and the citizens that "welcomed" him. He replaced then people in District 12, much to the District's disgust, and his loosened leash has granted him zero freedom.

Nirav is still trash to the people. Nirav is still less than dirt to the Capitol. Nirav is worth less to the citizens of District 12. All because he dug his nose too deep at sixteen. It's only natural that he gets things done nowadays through spite.

Even being moved to the Districts and keeping his Avox rights didn't save him from the Hunger Games. He'd hoped that he'd be moved straight into the mines to work—and he was, after a time—but it seems being of Reaping age applies to _everyone_ who enters the Districts. They pull out his name this year, no one volunteers, and he's farewelled by cheers over being sent away.

At least Haymitch tried to treat him like any other Tribute—callously and half-drunk, half-heartedly giving advice. It's a big improvement from the escort remarking, "Only one Tribute from Twelve this year!"

But now his frustration is hitting its tipping point. He's put up with so much in this arena, from the Gamemakers targeting him specifically to Tributes seeking to take out their rage on him. He's just like a mutt to everyone here, an unideal winner to those in the Capitol.

He's tired of it all.

Nirav was lucky enough to snag a crossbow before he fled the cornucopia, though he only succeeded in grabbing three bolts for it in his rush. He's used one already to test the crossbow, quickly losing it in the lake by the edge of the arena. Nirav isn't sure how he'll use the last two, but he's been counting the cannons as they go off. It's just three people left, including himself. He might get lucky again and taken down his opponents with just one bolt each.

He follows the cobblestone path towards the cornucopia, intent on running into someone in the midst of a feast. Nirav wasn't given anything when it was hosted—why would he be?—but everyone else seems to be occupied with their own packages. He could just walk up to one of them and just shoot. They'd be none the wiser, and he wouldn't have to be hunted down by them anymore.

The clearing is coming up, leading to what might possibly be the most insulting thing Nirav's ever seen in an arena. He's seen the garden that looked too beautiful to be murdered in, the sewage system that haunts the dreams of Avoxes like himself. But this wedding reception, the white uniforms they're given—even the bouquets lining the cornucopia—is disgusting. He passes a trellis covered with fabric and flowers, lingers by the long banquet table the feast had been held on. He sneers at it all, until he catches sight of the unfinished champagne resting at one of the seats.

Nirav's never drank before, but he might as well try now if he's going to die. And there's nothing better to start off with than a celebratory drink.

He carries the coupe in one hand, his crossbow still loaded in the other. Just on the other side of the cornucopia should be the wedding arch—and judging by the struggle he can hear nearby, so are the other Tributes. Nirav casually makes his way around, sipping at the champagne experimentally. It tastes dry, for sure, but it's a flavour he doesn't seem to mind. Better than the rations handed out in 12, better than the scraps he was given in the Capitol.

Once he makes it around the corner, he spots the two struggling against each other. The one with the upper hand—the girl from 8, her wedding dress torn and tattered with blood and dirt coating her skirt—is holding down the poor young boy from 2, whose face is slowly turning blue as she continues to strangle him. Nirav hums and leans against the cornucopia, watching blankly as he takes another sip of the champagne.

"Hey, Tongueless," the girl greets him. He nods in acknowledgement, watching the pleading look in the boy's eyes as he spots Nirav. "You're just in time to witness me win. Didn't think I'd make it this far, y'know?"

Nirav shrugs. The life is slowly fading from the boy's eyes, slipping into the depths.

"Sorry they didn't want to let you win, by the way." The girl grunts as she presses down harder. "You'd totally be a hit with the Capitol if it weren't for the whole rebel thing."

He doubts that.

"At least we had fun, yeah?"

Nirav shrugs. He keeps his gaze on the boy, watching as the struggling hands start to go limp and fall to his sides. Soon enough the cannon fires, and the girl lets him go with a relieved grin.

" _The victor of the Ninety-Third_ —"

He raises the crossbow and fires the bolt. With a loud _thunk_ , the bolt hits the girl in the back of the head and throws her violently to the ground. She doesn't get up again, the announcers left speechless as the seconds pass.

Nirav downs the rest of his champagne in one go. He throws the coupe to the ground, shattering it, and wipes his mouth with his sleeve. They're not going to announce his victory. If anything, they'll mourn the tragic death of their "true" victor, shunning Nirav further. He doesn't care, though. He knows the truth, just like he always has.

Nirav Cashile, the unrecognised winner of the 93rd Games. It has a ring to it.

* * *

 **And that's the mentors! We'll be moving on to the Capitol now, and luckily those reapings will only be six chapters. Who's excited to get closer to the Games? Because I sure am!**

 **QQ #9:** Which mentor was your favourite from this batch, and why?

 **I'll see you all in the Capitol, where our first two Tributes await!**


	16. Commander and Demander

**Oh? Ohohoho? Is this the Capitol reapings? Why, I think it is!**

 **We've got our first two kiddos here, sent in by** misfit-right-in **and** ThatOtherAsian **, respectively. And for those confused, I'm gonna refer to the kids as "C-District" if they're from the Capitol, mostly because they're not really representing the Capitol and more the Districts (but don't come from the Districts, if that makes sense). That's all with my rambling for now! Enjoy Val and Wystan!**

 **EDIT 07/16 -** **I've redone Wystan's section of the chapter after discussing it with his creator, so I hope he's come out a little more clearly than I portrayed him at first! ^^" Apologies for that, everyone!**

* * *

 **15 - Commander and Demander**

 **Valentina Teagan, 16, C-District 1**

She carefully weaves Artemis's hair into braid, making sure not to yank too hard as she bounces in her seat. "This is exciting," Valentina giggles.

"No, it's not." Artemis sighs as she meets her friend's eye in the mirror. "Whoever ends up going might die."

"And they might not!" Val beams as she ties the ribbon around the braid. She lets it go and pats Artemis's shoulder lightly. They switch seats, Artemis taking the spot behind Valentina and running a comb through the girl's hair. "Even if they do, it'll still be fun—it always winds up being fun."

Artemis rolls her eyes, but doesn't argue with her further. There's no point in it anyway; Valentina's set in her beliefs, hanging onto every moment in the Gamemaker headquarters her grandfather would tell her about. As much as she knows that the Hunger Games is a bloody sport that kills twenty-three children a year, it still feels like an adventure when she thinks about the arenas, the people that participate, and the costumes they get to wear.

Danger be damned, Valentina always loves an adventure.

Once Artemis is done brushing her hair, the two start putting on their shoes and moving out of the bedroom. It's not every day that Valentina gets to wear something as nice as this—the off-the-shoulder jumpsuit just never seemed to fit with any other big events, even birthdays—and she can't wait to see what the Tributes from each District look like. She's deliberately held back from watching Lola's coverage this year to keep it a surprise.

Artemis goes down the stairs first, waiting by the front door while Valentina heads off in the direction of her grandfather's study. Vikram Plume hasn't worked on the Hunger Games for a while now, but he still likes to pass his time designing mock games and arenas. If Valentina wasn't here to remind him that he needs some sunlight every so often, the man would lose track of time in that study.

She knocks on the door and barely waits for a response as she opens it. Vikram is bent over his desk, as expected, with a ruler and pencil in his hands. He's applying the finishing touches to an arena design, she thinks.

"Grandpa," she calls out. Vikram jumps, letting out a small hoot of laughter when he spots her. Valentina beams over at him, reaching for his hands. "C'mon, the Reaping's starting soon. I wanna see what the Tributes are like."

"Oh." Vikram takes her hand and lets her pull him from his chair. He really must've lost track of time today. "You need to get there early, don't you?"

She nods. "Registration."

"You and Artemis go on ahead. I'll meet you there after I finish cleaning myself up."

Valentina nods at him, pleased to know that he won't be spending all day working in his study. Both of them have been pretty excited ever since the Quell announcement, so it's good that both of them will be there to witness it kick off. They'll just have to meet in the middle of it.

Her best friend is still waiting anxiously by the door, fiddling with her braid as she sways on her feet. Valentina lets out an excited breath. She runs over the necessities in her head. Jumpsuit? Check. Wedge heels? At the door—so check. Gold hoops? She lightly presses at her earlobes, feeling the hoops bounce slightly at her touch. Check.

Valentina reaches into the pocket of her jumpsuit just as she reaches Artemis's side, checking for her token. The ridges of the coin tickle at her fingertips, the familiar crest belonging to her family still in the same spot. She smiles as she wraps her hand around it and slips on her heels. She's all set for the Reaping, for the Quell, and all that's left is registration.

"Ready to go?" She holds out her arm for Artemis to grab onto. The shy girl rolls her eyes as she loops her arm around Valentina's, her own flats tucked snugly around her feet. "Just today, okay Art?"

Artemis nods. "Just today," she repeats under her breath. "Let's go, Val."

When they enter the street, several kids their age are already doing the same. Thin lines, different than the droves that flock through the Districts, pass the two girls by as other teens chat among themselves. Boys and girls from Valentina's school walk on, their parents following grimly at a distance. It's a mixture of displeasure and excitement in all their faces, mirroring the two girls' own thoughts near-perfectly.

Valentina guides Artemis into the crowd, rubbing her arm reassuringly. Artemis isn't as good with being around people like Val is, but a day like today _needs_ her to be. What better way to see it through than by having a social butterfly like Valentina Teagan reassuring her at every step?

Artemis is muttering to herself, most likely trying to keep calm as the school listed in the news announcement draws near. It's not the one that she and Val attend—that's all the way on the other side of town—but it's smack bang in the middle of the designated sector for District 1 and 2's Capitol partners. From what Val's heard, it's a big community college for kids who want to pursue more mundane jobs, like fashion design and traffic control. Nothing like the one Val dreams of attending, where all Gamemakers go to prove their worth.

"Just today," Artemis chants, "just today, just today—"

Valentina rubs her arm again. "You're okay," she coos. "You're doing great, Art. It'll be over before you know it."

"Just today." Artemis nods. "Just today."

As excited as Valentina is for the event, she can see why someone like Artemis would be filled to the brim with anxiety over a simple Reaping. Based on things they've seen so far, things they've seen in other clips of other Games, even the kids with only one slip of paper have had their names pulled out before. Both being sixteen, Valentina and Artemis would have their names in five times each for District 1. More than the girl from 3 who was chosen, more than the boy from 12 who just had his name called out.

Artemis is scared. Scared for herself, scared for everyone around her. Probably Val, too. She doesn't really need to be, since "adventure" is basically Valentina's middle name by this point. Val would welcome all the horrors and travelling that come with the Games, because where else will she get an opportunity like this next? Where else will she experience something new with her own eyes?

It's why Valentina's determined to volunteer for this Quell. She won't get another chance to unless she unceremoniously winds up in the Districts before she turns eighteen, and by the time she finds out if there's somewhere water has gone down enough to try and build another city, she'll be well into adulthood.

Corners and corners, streets and a large gate. The sign of the school hung dazzlingly over the top of the walls with the name of today's event underneath. Here's where it starts to get slightly more congested as the kids register at the doors to the lecture hall ahead. Girls on one side, boys on the other; a pause every few seconds as they say their name and age, as the officials print out the required amount of papers and fold them in half. Into the bowls they go, steadily filling up on either side as Valentina and Artemis draw closer.

They soon have to separate. It's only for a minute—just to announce their names and ages—and then they're stuck to each other again like glue. Inside the lecture hall is spacious and wide, a large screen pulled over the chalkboard that's already broadcasting the District Tributes' names. Escorts are already standing at the stage with equally nervous expressions, no sign of the mentors or Tributes to be seen.

Valentina chews at her lip. They must be waiting for an introduction, to put a face to the names on the screen. She wants to know what Altan Knight will prove to be like, but she promised herself she'd leave the surprise for when the time comes.

She pats her cheeks as she sits down, Artemis counting her own breaths beside her. "You can do this, Val," Valentina whispers. "You've _got this_."

Minutes pass, the hall filling up almost to capacity by the time those doors shut and the Peacekeepers stand at attention. Valentina's amazed that the hall is large enough to fit all of these teenagers, even leaving some seats empty towards the back. She marvels at it all, at the view her own seat grants her, as the first escort walks up to her microphone.

"Good afternoon, children of the Capitol." Her clawed hands shake as they grasp the stand. Is she nervous? Upset? "Welcome to the Reaping of the Fourth Quell, wherein two of you will join the Tributes from Districts One and Two in the Games."

She steps back, letting the woman in pink—no, who _is_ pink—step forward. "My name is Edith, and I'll be the escort for the young man who joins us in District Two. The lovely lady to my right is Vera, who will be the escort for the young lady who joins District One." Edith nods to everyone in the lecture hall, a silent greeting following her introduction.

Vera steps up again, this time steeling herself with a deep breath. She brings a smile to her face, gesturing to one of the curtains by the end of the stage, and says, "Allow me to introduce Altan Knight and his mentor, Atticus Clarke!"

Two people walk out, one small and one tall. The Tribute, Altan Knight, looks nothing like Valentina had anticipated—which makes his reveal all the more amazing. Tough and proud, presenting himself with an air of superiority that could make even the most hardened outer District Tribute tremble. Or so Val likes to think. He's definitely handsome like every other Career from 1, and she has no doubt he'll know his way around a weapon and teach her as much as possible in the days to come.

She beams at him, hands shaking excitedly. There's no doubt about whether or not she'll volunteer now.

Edith goes on to introduce her own Tribute, almost shamefully announcing, "Cetronia Livius and her mentor, Felix Brough."

Valentina isn't sure where the shame is coming from, unless the mentor's weight has Edith doubting Cetronia's chances. From what she sees of the tall, black girl onstage, there's an absolute goddess addressing the crowd. It's the kind of beauty you'd see in the models for the Capitol fashion shows, coupled with the powerful build and height of a Career Tribute in their prime. Valentina's already heard a lot about Cetronia—only seventeen, homeschooled to boot—but seeing her in the flesh, seeing her tower over Altan Knight, has her almost wishing the Games allowed same-sex District pairings.

Altan sneers at Cetronia as the bowls are brought out, but Cetronia pays him no mind as the escorts tell the duo to shake hands. Her expression remains neutral as Altan's becomes more threatening, an almost clear sign that he has no intentions of calling Cetronia an ally. Valentina sighs. She was really banking on Altan wanting to be in the Career pack, but she supposes she'll have to find other ways to stay on Cetronia's good side.

Vera reaches into her bowl first, digging around until she freezes with a start. Her hand is pulled out cautiously, two slips of paper impaled on one of her claws. Edith rushes over and slides one of the papers off of Vera's hand, allowing the bewildered woman to read out the name on the tattered slip.

She calls out the name, "Lucinda Nova." A girl from a few rows down stands up with a sigh, her friends bursting out into tears almost immediately.

"I volunteer!" Val shouts. For just that little bit more emphasis, she climbs atop the desk in front of her and bounces on her heels. "I volunteer! Me! Over here!"

Artemis is tugging at her jumpsuit in a panic, hissing at her to stop goofing around. Valentina just smiles down at her, winking, before pulling her leg away and trotting along the desks to reach the closest Peacekeeper. He helps her down with a delicate hand, catching her as she starts to stumble in her heels, and finally begins to lead her to the stage. Lucinda Nova sits back down, hugging her friends as she too cries alongside them.

She's welcomed onstage by a very surprised Vera and bemused Atticus. The man shakes her hand and commends her on her "spunk and moxie", while Vera shuffles aside and asks her to state her name and age for the viewers at home.

Valentina takes the microphone with a large grin on her face. "My name's Valentina Teagan," she announces. "I'm sixteen years old, and I'm going to _crush_ this Quell with Altan Knight!"

She turns on her heel to face Altan, holding out her hand for him to shake. He just stares at her, caught between shock and confusion; he must not have expected a volunteer, much less for said volunteer to immediately ally with him. After a moment of silence, he reaches out and shakes her hand with a firm grip.

"You're damn right, we are," he agrees.

Atticus chuckles to himself as Edith moves towards her own bowl. There must be something amusing about the whole situation that Valentina can't see yet, like some kind of irony or prediction coming true. She shakes excitedly beside Altan as Edith reaches into the bowl and clears her throat. Soon she'll see who Cetronia will be working with.

The paper is crumpled more than folded when she pulls it out, making it easier to read than Vera's at the very least. Edith looks over the name once, twice; she flushes red and covers her mouth with her hand, almost hesitant to read out the name between her fingers.

With great reluctance, Edith leans over to the microphone and chokes out, "Wystan Warwick."

Val thinks she's heard that name before. Some big, rich family that works in the law or something. She'd had no idea one of the kids in the Warwick family was old enough—let alone _young_ enough—to be Reaped.

There's a lot of shuffling in the boys' crowd as a tuft of green hair moves about, making his way to the lane with poise. Valentina stares down at him as he approaches the stage, taking in the alterations and overall appearance he's donned. Bright green hair that's been swept neatly to the side, almost professionally, and blood-red eyes that stare back at her with an almost unreadable expression. His suit—or rather, his blazer itself—matches the tone of his hair perfectly, while his shoes are just a tad darker than his eyes. From the distance she stands at, she can just barely see the vertical scars on either side of his neck—obviously not injuries, but smooth alterations made in surgery.

He's much smaller than she expects him to be when he comes onstage and stands beside his escort. Edith looks him up and down nervously, her lips trembling as she tries to keep up a smile.

"Do you have anything to say to your friends, Mr. Warwick?" she asks.

Wystan is silent for a second, looking over the boys' section with an almost expectant gaze. The boys all stare back, fidgeting in their seats. Some of them are even smiling, relieved.

The small boy leans in close to the microphone and says, "All of you can go to hell. Cowards."

Laughter breaks out in the crowd. Not awkward laughter, but amused, relieved laughter. They're all glad it's Wystan going and not them, barely even fazed by his aggression and name-calling. Wystan goes to Felix and Cetronia's sides with a disgusted expression, casting one last glance Valentina's way. She smiles at him, giving him a small wave as the Reaping comes to a close.

Wystan Warwick, with all the maturity he can muster, scrunches up his face at her and flips her off.

* * *

 **Wystan Warwick, 14, C-District 2**

Wystan kicks at his chair with a grunt. "This is bullshit!"

The fat pig of a mentor, Felix, tries to calm him down. He barely gets a wheeze out before Wystan snaps at him, "Don't even talk to me, _Fattix_."

His District partner— _Goddamn District partner, why is he even here?_ —just shifts in her seat as she eats her food with a calm expression. Ever since he saw her up onstage, towering over the boy from 1, he's felt confliction towards her. Is it because of her inhuman height or the fact that she won't even acknowledge him? _Him_ , Wystan fucking Warwick. Whatever her problem is, he's certain it's going to cause more problems than this Quell has already supplied him with.

"W—Why don't we all just sit down?" Edith tries. "Mr. Warwick, you've barely touched your caviar."

Wystan sneers at her. Even as he fixes his seat and sets himself down, attempting to give himself some calm, Wystan's anger still makes itself apparent as he takes a spoonful of his meal. His mentor— _mentor_ —wipes at his brow with a handkerchief. Silence settles over the cart at last, filled only by the sounds of Cetronia and Wystan eating their lunches.

He's got to figure out his game plan before he arrives at the Training Centre, that's for certain. A lot of people have wound up bloodbaths because they weren't prepared enough, and it was a sheer miracle that District 7's mentor this year made it past her own bloodbath. Wystan dares a glance at Felix. The man is shoving large chunks of beef into his mouth, chewing them open-mouthed and breathing loudly in between bites. Wystan hides his mouth behind his fist, dropping his spoon into his caviar.

Didn't Felix win because someone starved to death before he did? Almost taken out by Gamemakers because he nearly resorted to cannibalism? Wystan shakes his head. He's lost his appetite, that's for sure. And his hopes for getting far on _this_ man's advice is crumbling with every loud snort he makes while chewing.

"This is ridiculous," Wystan sighs after a few more seconds. To his surprise, Cetronia agrees with him.

"This year is going to be a mess," she reports. "The guy from One won't want to ally with us. Too aggressive."

He looks at her curiously. All Altan Knight had done was shake her hand, maybe glare a little too hard to be considered friendly. How does she know he's too aggressive?

Felix leans forward, thankfully ceasing his eating in order to speak. "What's your full impression of him, Cetronia?" he asks.

To his immediate right, Wystan can see Edith slowly becoming more and more annoyed by the conversation. He can't see why—all Tributes have to plan ahead of time, especially during train rides to the Centre. Cetronia shifts in her seat and begins cutting her meat into small triangles.

As she sets each piece aside to cut the rest, she explains, "He didn't look too happy, standing with his mentor. Atticus won the last Quell, correct?"

Felix nods.

"He came across as angry, particularly when we came out. I think he has a problem with Two in general—that, or he's trying to assume the role of Alpha between us." Cetronia rolls her eyes. "Pointless…"

There's a lot of things Wystan could argue being even more pointless. This Quell, for one. This mentor, for another. Wystan was honestly hoping for things to go differently when his name was called out. He may not have had a lot of people who'd vouch for him—they called him "Warprick" for a reason, after all—but he'd at least hoped other kids of Peacekeepers would take the fall for him. Some rich girl volunteered for someone she clearly didn't know, excited to be in the Games. How come Wystan didn't have anyone like that in the boys' section to volunteer for him?

At least he was given to the best District of them all, he reminds himself. If he'd been put with 1, he'd have been at odds with everything about them; he never saw the appeal in "luxury goods", nor did he ever figure out how it benefited the Capitol like masonry and power does. Wystan probably wouldn't have as much respect for his partner if he was put with 1. He probably would've done more than tell everyone present to go to hell once he was onstage.

District 2, though. Only the best, most honourable warriors come from 2. They won't resort to cheap tricks or make anything too complicated. They've got superiority complexes that the other good Districts don't have, sure; but in Wystan's eyes, they deserve to feel they're on top of the world.

He looks over at Cetronia. She's done cutting her meat and slides the plate over to Felix. Part of Wystan can see why she won't pay him much mind. He's untrained in most aspects, even if he himself thinks his skills with the blade and fighting tactics are substantial, and compared to Cetronia he's probably still an amateur. Capitol kids don't fight each other to the death every year. They don't need to know the things Cetronia knows.

But another part of him demands she pay him respect. He wants this partnership to be a two-way street, for them to cooperate and make the most of this Quell. Wystan has the knowledge and the standards, and Cetronia definitely looks like she has the strength and beauty to carry their plans through. She's not some dumb, muscley Career—she's proved that with the first words he heard her speak to Felix—and that's all Wystan could've asked for once it became apparent no one was going to volunteer. If Wystan is going to make it to the end of this Quell—if Cetronia wants to return home with glory and honour fit for a victor—then they need to work together on equal footing.

Edith clears her throat, trying to get everyone's attention again. Only Felix looks over, already digging into Cetronia's abandoned meal.

"Before we continue with these dreadful Games analyses," she sighs, "I'd like for both of you to present your tokens for inspection."

Again, Cetronia rolls her eyes. She stands up and walks over to Edith's side—has she always had that tear in her skirt? How did Wystan not notice?—and reaches into the pocket of her jacket. She produces a small wooden elephant, barely the size of her palm. Edith looks it over and nods for Cetronia to go back to her seat. Instead of sitting back down, though, Cetronia just leaves the carriage with an announcement of exhaustion.

Wystan stares after her. How can she be exhausted in the middle of the day? She's not some sick Career, is she? One of those anaemic ones, or those diabetic ones? He looks over at Felix, ready to ask as such, but is quickly cut off by the man.

"She sleeps during the day and trains at night," he tells Wystan. "Don't worry. She'll find a way to make use of it in the arena with you."

He weighs up the amount of plans that could be made with Cetronia's sleep schedule. If she's nocturnal, then she and Wystan might be the only Tributes to benefit from twenty-four hours of defenses. Wystan stands guard during the day while she sleeps, Cetronia hunts Tributes at night while everyone else rests.

"I can use this," he mutters.

"A- _hem_!" Edith makes grabby hands at Wystan. "Your token, Mr. Warwick?"

He clicks his tongue. "I have no use for such useless trinkets on the battlefield."

Felix smiles around a piece of meat. "I like this one," he laughs.

Edith ignores the man. She just inhales deeply and reaches for the bag beside her chair, unzipping it with a tired expression of her own. Damn, Cetronia's exhaustion must be contagious. Edith pulls a stack of papers out from the bag, quickly sliding them over to Wystan with a fountain pen.

"If you're done eating and don't have a token to present, the next—and final—step is core information for the Gamemakers."

He squints at her. Core information? What more could they need other than his name and age? He looks over the form and fills in the easy parts—his name, age, gender and sex—and eventually arrives at the more questionable parts of the paperwork. Things that don't make sense to ask a Capitol child, let alone one going into the Hunger Games.

Wystan taps the tip of the fountain pen against one question asking his monthly income. "Why all _these_ questions?"

The man across from him clears his throat. He dabs at his brow once, and then Felix says, "District children are kept in files. Blood samples, identification, yearly tessera take, employment." He nods to Wystan. "Being a Capitol child, you aren't kept so closely watched. Your leash is significantly longer, so to speak."

Wystan hums. "Why isn't blood type on here?"

"Because they know ours from birth. My guess is that the names and ages were just added for convenience on their part—so they know who filled out what."

He puts dashes in the sections that don't apply to him. He doesn't work, doesn't earn money, and he certainly doesn't take tessera. "Would knowing all this help get on common ground with one's allies?" he asks.

Felix shrugs. "Depends on how private your allies are. It's pretty personal stuff."

He flips over the page, and immediately he figures out why. Sexual history, family illnesses, criminal records. No one wants to air that particular kind of dirty laundry, especially to people who'll turn on them eventually.

After another minute or so of silence and three more pieces of paper completed, one question finally finds its way out of Wystan's mouth. He doesn't mean to say it, really; but just the phrase "preferred pronouns" is more than enough to make him do a double take and look back on the first piece he'd filled out.

"Why pronouns?" he demands.

He can understand needing to know preferred pronouns—he's known some people in school who don't go by the conventional he or she—but it's why the _Capitol_ needs to know this about every District child that has him confused. It's a lot to keep up with, especially with how densely populated some Districts are.

Ever willing to lend a hand and spout some information with a smile, Edith shuffles in her seat and points at the sheet of paper at the bottom of the stack. It's all bubbles for him to fill in, some of the questions also relating to identification.

"Some Tributes in the past have had… _problems_ , you could say, with regards to how their prep teams addressed them." She looks uncertainly at Felix. "I think it was around the eighty… sixth Games they were brought in?"

Felix nods. "Yanovich."

A grim look passes Edith. "Yes, Yanovich. Anyway," she goes on, attention back on Wystan, "it was after Miss Amos took over the interviewing process that the system came into play. We've had an alarmingly high number of suicides in the Games because of the issue, and Miss Amos wanted to help the children perform at their best by being addressed how they wanted to."

He raises a brow. It's hard to see how being called by the wrong pronouns can have such an effect on Tributes, but he won't question it further. Instead, he zeroes in on the name they mentioned. Yanovich must've been a big part of this new system coming in. "And Yanovich?"

There's that grim look again, this time lingering on Edith's face as she recalls Yanovich. She wipes at her eye for a second and loosens her bow. "Miss Yanovich was the last straw for the Gamemakers, you could say," she sighs. "She was doing fine when she was called up onstage—she even got along well with her partner, and her allies adored her to bits. But it was when she had to deal with her prep team that she started to struggle."

Edith almost hesitates to continue. Wystan nods to her, urging her on. "She jumped off of her chariot during the Parade," she continues. "Tried to take her own life with the carriage behind her, make a last stand against the Capitol for mistreating her. They'd aired it an hour after filming. No one saw her jump—just an edited image of her waving and smiling like nothing was wrong."

"But we haven't had any Games with twenty-three Tributes." Wystan looks back down at the paperwork and resumes filling it out. Better to get it done with soon.

"You're right. When she went into a coma, the Capitol selected a replacement and just changed their appearance through editing. Made them look like her, then detonate the pedestal's mines a second before the Games started."

Wystan scowls. He angrily flips over the sheet and scribbles in another answer. How dare the Gamemakers do that? How dare they just rig it so that Yanovich never had a chance to win? How dare they just _toy_ with someone they probably told would be given glory for winning? He hopes this is the worst he'll hear of the Gamemakers and the prep teams, but a sinking feeling tells him it won't be.

"Spineless," he mutters. Edith tilts her head at him, having apparently misheard him, but he doesn't bother repeating himself. Everyone in the Capitol is just spineless in the end, not willing to make a change and let someone prove their own worth. Wystan chews at his lip as the pen begins to tear at one of the sheets, thankfully putting a hole in a section he doesn't need to fill out.

If only they were as good as their Peacekeepers. If only the Gamemakers and the politicians were as remarkable as their bodyguards. If only they weren't so _pathetic_.

But maybe Wystan can change that now that he's been dragged into the Games. Even with this giant obstacle put in front of him, his life plans haven't changed. Become a Peacekeeper, join the very ranks his family has commanded, become a legend for his honour and strength. If he becomes the first Peacekeeper to also win the Hunger Games, maybe all the chicken shits in the Capitol will take some initiative. Maybe they'll stop resorting to underhanded tricks from the shadows and tackle everything head on.

A small smile creeps onto his face as he reaches the final page. Yes, that'd fix a lot. It's a small step, but a ripple can eventually cause a wave to form. Yanovich was proof of that in the Games' system—so Wystan has just as much a chance to do the same for the Capitol. No more hiding from problems. No more tricks and dishonesty.

Just a nation of fighters who follow the right path.

* * *

 **So there's a little look at the train rides and the first impressions of Capitol/District pairs. There'll be five more of these before we get to the pre-Games events, which will hopefully also give us refreshers for each District Tribute that's been introduced so far. Till then, have the chapter question to ponder on!**

 **QQ #10:** Would you volunteer for the Games if you were from the Capitol?

 **See you all in the next chapter!**


	17. The Outspoken and the Withdrawn

**Next batch of Capitol kids! You'll notice there's a bit of a change in grammar, and that's because it got really tedious to keep capitalising certain words that didn't need to be, and writing numbers when there wasn't dialogue was blech.**

 **Anyhow, these two were sent in by** CelticGames4 **and** Rockafansky **! Hope you all enjoy them, and I hope I got them right!**

* * *

 **16 - The Outspoken and the Withdrawn**

 **Nikostratos Croix Farrington, 18, C-District 3**

He grins smugly up at Spurgeon. Blanket still half-draped over his legs, the regret and defeat clear in the boy's eyes as he stares at his hands. Croix loves days like this, where he has the goody-two-shoes wrapped around his finger. The days where Spurgeon Riverty, the boy who despises Croix's methods and rough play, finally gives in and follows the demiboy's lead.

Croix loves it. God, he loves it so much. Nothing is better than the feeling of insulting Spurgeon after sex.

Spurgeon simply crawls out from under the sheets with a heavy sigh. Runs a hand over his face and shakes his head. Croix watches with amusement as Spurgeon follows the same dance that accompanies their night-long song. First he'll look for his pants—all the way by the mirror—and then he'll move for the bathroom. He'll spend five minutes washing his face and psyching himself up to go back into the room, and then he'll linger in the doorway and watch Croix with a conflicted expression. It's like clockwork, Croix thinks as he watches Spurgeon shuffle into his trousers.

But today proves to be different. Spurgeon takes a different route, immediately turning and laying his head back on the pillow closest to Croix. Croix watches him with raised brows.

"Finally grow a spine?" Croix teases lightly. Spurgeon just sighs at him. The conflicted expression is already there, but none of the prerequisites were filled. What's wrong with him today? Did Croix actually break him down this time?

No, he can't have. If Croix had broken him down, Spurgeon would be firing back insults of his own. He's still being his usual polite, hesitant self—like every other morning after they've shared.

"You're not worried about today?" Spurgeon asks softly. He reaches out and goes to sweep some of Croix's hair out of his eye, but he hesitates within millimetres of contact.

Croix shrugs. He rolls over and drags the sheet off of the bed with him. It stays snugly over his shoulders, slipping ever so slightly but still keeping him warm. "Not particularly," he says. "It's all boys today, but we're not exactly in danger of anything."

"We're eighteen, Niko—"

"And I'm not worried." He makes his way over to the bathroom, sheet dragging along the floor behind him. "Go spend time with your family and friends if you're that scared. Sentimental square," he mutters under his breath. He doesn't listen for any reply from Spurgeon, though to Spurgeon's credit none is given. Even as Croix examines his face in the mirror and checks his tattoos, not a peep is heard from Spurgeon.

So he hops into the shower. Cleans the smell of sex from him and washes his face. No matter what event is being held today, he'll still continue with his morning routine like nothing has happened. To lose his cool over something that might not even call for his presence is just ridiculous.

He can hear a rustling on the other side of the door once the water stops running. Spurgeon's voice talking softly to no one, a mention of parents suggesting that his own have called to ask where he is. Croix pays him no mind as he blow dries his hair and inspects his nails one by one. By the time Croix bothers to peek outside the door to see if his bedroom has been left occupied, Spurgeon has left. He smiles somewhat at the fact—Spurgeon always left before Croix finished his showers, no matter what the day would hold for them. He's long past the point of being kicked out by Croix each morning, saving both of them a lot of time and a lot more trouble.

The grey button-down is still hanging from his wardrobe door when he comes out. No creases or stains, the black tie loosely held around the collar. When Croix slides open one of the doors, he finds his dress pants and shoes waiting neatly atop one of his drawers. It's all there, waiting for him to show off to the world.

Well. More like to the boys who'll be present at the reaping.

Croix still has to run over the way the Capitol reaping will work today. It's unfamiliar and different to how the Districts do it—not all in one place, over and done with and crowding all of the commutes—but it still feels familiar enough to remind himself. They divide different areas of the Capitol by landmarks, assigning two Districts to each section. It's not unlike the way the government determines what schools you go to prior to college—you live in a certain area, and they tell you which schools are the closest and which is more beneficial to attend. Unless you're a rich person who sends their kids to prestigious private schools, Croix reminds himself as he buttons up the shirt.

In Croix's case, he lives between the statue of the first President of Panem, Julius Herron, and the academy all the Gamemakers attend. Everyone within the area is to gather at the sports centre within that boundary, which works just fine for Croix. It's still close to home. He's not being put out by it.

He slips on his shoes and clears his throat. With a confident air to his stride, he makes his way back to the bathroom. In the uppermost drawer are his contacts, soaking in water and waiting for another day of use. Croix watches his reflection as one of them rests lightly on his fingertip; one deep, dark brown eye stares back at him before it's engulfed in silver, leaving just one brown eye left. Croix blinks a few times to get used to the feel of it, then seamlessly puts in the other contact.

Silver eyes keep a keen watch on him as he sets to work applying gel to his hair, pushing the strands of the undercut from his face. A combination of blues, greens and purples weave together as he shapes it, and then he's picture perfect and ready to go.

Croix struts out of his room with his glasses in hand. His door shuts softly behind him, and soon enough the thick frames are resting comfortably on his nose. There's not a lot of noise going on in the Farrington residence, leaving Croix to wonder if his parents have left early for the reapings (like he was supposed to). He doesn't spot either of them as he walks through each room, doesn't hear his mother talking to his father even as he enters the kitchen and pulls some strawberries from the fridge.

He chews thoughtfully on them for a moment, wondering if his suspicions are right and that he's the only one home. It wouldn't be a surprise—Croix's a big boy, and his parents know this. They probably believe he's responsible enough to get ready on his own rather than needing his parents to hold his hand and fuss over time constraints.

That brings a satisfied smile to his face. All the talks about needing space now that he's an adult have paid off. He won't be known as the Head Gamemaker whose parents hovered over him well into his twenties.

He goes back to his room for just a few more things—his smartwatch, a dash of cologne—before he decides it's time to head off to the sports centre. It'll be a quiet walk, he thinks as he spots the last of this area's teens leaving their homes. He'll be fashionably late—or rather, fashionably on time—to witness which poor saps will be sent off to the Training Centre.

There's no sign of Spurgeon to be seen, even as he gets closer to the long line waiting outside the sports centre. The boy isn't waiting among the other teens, and he certainly isn't following behind Croix. Croix contemplates how early Spurgeon must have arrived as he waits in the line, and then he goes on to wonder who will wind up with the girls from the Districts.

As far as Croix knows, there's a untrained Career and a young nerd with Tourette's. Everyone who actually thinks they have enough bad luck to get into the Games wants to be with the Career, chattering about how dangerous Tourette's in an arena might be. In Croix's opinion, both of them would be pretty dangerous to be around in an arena—from what he's seen of previous Games, untrained Careers are basically dead weight in a pack. Just as useless as the other, he thinks idly.

But the mentors sound like something interesting. Synthia Quanta is a fan favourite with how she used Johanna Mason's tactics without anyone suspecting her, and she's definitely got the personality of a Career that makes her a valuable teacher. Young, too—she'd relate to the tributes better. Melvin Pike was a survivor rather than a winner, though he was actually trained unlike his tribute. He made good decisions that most can't say they come up with in the arena, which would be pretty useful to pick at if someone wound up with Four.

He peeks through the doors as he gets closer to the official. Either way, someone will wind up with a dud for a partner and a lifeline for a mentor.

The official asks him his name and age, and Croix proudly replies, "Nikostratos Farrington, eighteen." Six little slips with his name on them are printed out and dumped into a bag, which immediately whirrs as it mixes in with the other slips belonging to the rest of the line. He walks into the sports centre with a confident stride. With how many names there'll be in this bowl, he's definitely safe from being reaped.

He takes a seat right up the front, amazed to see that not many others have claimed them yet. Everyone's sort of hanging towards the back, hoping to hiding among each other and go unnoticed. Croix raises a brow at the sight, both amused and disappointed. Of course the area he lives in would be full of cowards. He hopes whoever gets reaped at least keeps up a brave face for the cameras.

It takes another ten minutes for the doors to close and for all the boys to take their seats. The lights dim ever so slightly, brightening the stage set up in the basketball court in front of them; after what feels like years of waiting for the dramatic effect to fade, the first of the escorts walks out.

Croix doesn't mind Iris's appearance. She's a Capitolite who took the risk of completely redesigning her facial structure for an extra pair of eyes, and she's got the kind TV personality that everyone adores. He's not one for goody-goodies like her most of the time, but he likes to think that even Iris has her days. She waves to everyone and looks to her left for Crowley; the man just walks onstage with a glum expression, looking as pleased to be here as every other potential tribute in the room. Croix thinks the man might be let go of after this year—even Croix wouldn't let someone so depressing kickstart the reapings.

"Welcome, young men of the Capitol," Iris starts. Crowley looks over at her with a bored expression as he raises his own microphone to his face, waiting for his turn to speak. "I'm Iris, and I'll be the escort for the lucky lad who partners with District Three."

As soon as she pauses to let Crowley speak, the man heaves out a sigh. Definitely going to be let go of next year. "And I'm Crowley. I'll be escorting whomever is reaped for District Four."

"I know it sounds like a scary experience," Iris goes on, "but we'll be by your side every step of the way! Now, do we have the bowl ready?"

A few silent seconds pass before a large glass bowl is wheeled out on a cart. Croix's eyes bulge at the sight of it, amazed at the sheer size of it and how the names still manage to almost overfill it. Crowley and Iris inch towards it, though neither reaches for the bowl as the teens all shift in their seats nervously.

Iris gestures to her right, where two people walk onstage to stand beside her. One of them is small and holding onto one of her arms with an iron grip and a nervous expression, while the other is tall and pretty as she carries herself with pride. The taller one must be Synthia, Croix thinks.

"It's my pleasure to introduce the tribute from Three, Daphne Petheraph!" A few seconds pass for the girl to greet everyone, but instead of words all that comes out is a loud squeak. Iris's smile falters just a tad before she's back to her old self. "And with her is the mentor for Three, Synthia Quanta!"

This time there's a few claps as Synthia waves regally at them all. Even Croix manages two flat claps before he sinks back into his seat. Iris wastes no time reaching her hand into the bowl once introductions are made, wishing the teens sitting in front of her the best of luck. Croix picks at his nails as he waits for the announcement. Iris takes her sweet time picking a slip of paper, seemingly nervous about the name she may pull, but finally she pulls one out.

She reads over it once and looks out over at the crowd. Dismay is in her expression, no longer able to hide behind her cheery smile. Croix's right—even Iris has her days.

"Can, um," she tries, only to stop when her breath catches in her throat. Iris starts again. "Can Nikostratos Farrington come to the stage?"

Croix's hands freeze at the sound of his name. He just stares at her, still sitting comfortably in his chair as a few kids from his school spot him. Well, isn't this just a bundle of joy? He certainly isn't one of the lucky ones who gets to go home at the end of the day—not unless someone volunteers. No one does, and it becomes apparent that no one will as a Peacekeeper marches over to the front row. Croix continues to stare at Iris even as the Peacekeeper clears their throat, trying to catch Croix's attention.

When Croix doesn't respond, they demand, "Are you going to come willingly, Nikostratos?"

Croix waves a hand at the Peacekeeper. "Yeah. Yeah," he mutters. "Just needed a minute to process it."

He stands up and exits the front row, Peacekeeper close behind him to make sure he doesn't try to run. Croix doesn't see the point in it; why run when everyone knows you're supposed to be the one leaving? Why throw yourself into the volcano in a pitiful attempt at avoiding a life or death scenario? Why bother worrying when, for just this year, a Capitol child is guaranteed safe return?

Daphne shrinks under his gaze and mumbles a hello, while Synthia wastes no time draping an arm over his shoulder and leaning in close enough for only him to hear her. Crowley takes centre stage once Iris moves to Daphne's side and holds the small girl's hand. Croix can hear Synthia giggling to herself as Crowley dips his hand into the bowl.

"Just wanna know something, handsome," she whispers to him. Croix hums, doing his best to keep his gaze trained on the crowd for the next tribute. "How far are you going to go to win?"

Croix scoffs. How far? What a dumb question. No one ever gets anywhere by playing fair and being a doormat to the rules—Croix's known this for years, ever since he changed his place in the status quo at just nine, and he sure as hell isn't backing down from the ideal.

"Don't worry about crossing a line," he tells her. Synthia hums in amusement. "Just give me opportunities I can make the most of, and we'll get along fine."

"Simoleon Serif?" Crowley announces into the microphone. Croix keeps his eyes peeled for Simoleon, curious to see who this is.

"Looks like I didn't get a hopeless team this year," Synthia chuckles. "Three hasn't had anyone willing to play dirty for a while."

Croix looks away from the crowd just as he spots a black, wide brimmed hat rise from the crowd. He swears he sees hints of a blue-green fringe peeking from underneath the hat, but doesn't let himself linger on it for long. He looks Synthia in the eye this time, a half-smirk directed at her as he says, "Playing dirty is my specialty."

Just as he says this, the Capitol tribute for Four breaks down into a panic onstage.

* * *

 **Simoleon Serif, 17, C-District 4**

"I'm dead. I'm dead, I'm dead, I'm dead." They rock back and forth, chin tucked into their knees. "So many people. Going to be so many people there when the doors open. I'm dead. They'll kill me. I'll choke."

Adrianne hovers over them, as does Melvin, and it only makes them feel even more like they're suffocating. Not enough air, not enough air—

"Is there anything I can do?" Adrianne asks nervously. Simi doesn't look up at her, digging their face further into their knees and hiding behind their hat.

"S—Space," they gasp. "Need to breathe. Need space."

"You're gonna be okay, kid." It's Melvin, draping something warm around Simi's shoulders. They freeze, doing their best not to recoil, as they try to figure out what the fabric around them is. "Just take deep breaths. Do you need something to take the edge off?"

A gasp. It must be Adrianne, because she immediately hisses, " _Melvin_!" afterwards.

"I don't like offering it," Melvin says, "but if it's needed—"

"No." Simi shakes their head. They lift it just a tad, hoping to catch a glimpse of what's around their shoulder. Almost as though wanting to reveal itself to them, the long line of wool falls into their lap and stares back at them. A scarf. Simi could laugh. Melvin gave them his scarf. "No drugs. I'll—" They swallow the lump in their throat. "— _manage_."

Adrianne scoots closer. Sim can actually see her face now—can actually get an impression of her. The fact that she's sitting on the floor with them as they try not to go into a panic attack for the second time today says a lot about her. From what Simi's seen in past Games, Careers are super proud and arrogant, never one to help others unless they benefited them. Adrianne seems to be different—they saw her reaping, saw the way she looked so unfocused when the cameras watched her walk onstage. She volunteered to save someone else; they damn well know the difference between volunteering out of duty and volunteering out of heroic desperation. She and the boy from Six both have that in common.

"Are you sure?" she asks them, and Simi just adds to his list of qualities about her. Helpful. Concerned. Mothering. Kind.

They nod. "Yeah. I think so."

The escort is nowhere to be seen, having already disappeared from the cart, but Melvin is still around to provide support for the two teens. He's moved to the table, already pouring out glasses of juice for each of them while he rubs his neck almost mournfully. Each time the hand passes over different patches of skin, Simi can spot varying shades of pinks and reds around the man's throat.

Melvin sits back down on the floor with the teens, handing them both a glass. He catches Simi's stare—and he smiles, despite how uncomfortable he looks with his neck exposed.

"Frostbite," he says simply. "Made the mistake of laying on a pillow of snow for a few nights. Keep that in mind, you two," he adds, looking to Adrianne as well.

Adrianne nods and sips at her juice. She glances at Simi, then back to Melvin. "What now?" she asks.

Melvin takes a deep breath. He reaches into his jacket's inner pocket and pulls out a neatly folded bundle of papers. Simi can't see most of its contents, but the way Melvin pushes it towards them practically gives away who the papers are for.

"Simoleon just has to fill out some paperwork."

Simi chews at their lip as they reach for the papers. They didn't know they had to fill out anything—they thought it just stopped at the doorway leading to the sports centre, but clearly more is expected from them even after being put through the horror of their life. They just hope it won't be much more stressful than having to stand onstage in front of so many people, though they can imagine that particular discomfort coming back fairly soon once the Parade starts.

Almost as though sensing their nervousness, Melvin smiles at them. "Just a consensus. You can omit whatever you want to, as well."

"Consensus?" Simi looks over each paper with interest now. "Like how they take statistics for the Districts?"

"They do that?" Adrianne mutters. "Is that why I have to fill out letters stating my identity and health conditions?"

Their mentor nods proudly. Looks like the duo are on the right track with what he's telling them so far. "They want Capitol kids to fill out a basic form for reference sake," he explains. "So they don't encounter any problems and get a prep team that understands them."

Simi hums. They look at each question, slowly becoming more and more impressed by the details needed. It even goes so far as to ask for preferred names alongside a birth name—is this why some tributes in recent years have gone by different names to what they were reaped under?

Ah. They're respecting them instead of forcing them to die as someone they're not. Simi can see the helpfulness behind the consensus. They'd much rather not be called the Four boy during this Quell, and a form like this can prevent it from happening altogether.

Adrianne finishes off the rest of her juice. She sets down the glass and looks back at Simi, kind smile on her face as she glances down at the papers. "I can fill it out if you want to drink your juice," she offers. "Just tell me what I'd need to write and I'll get on it!"

Simi stares back at her. Helpful. Kind. Adrianne might actually be a friend they can rely on if she keeps this up. They smile awkwardly at her and hand the papers over. Now that they think about it, they are a little thirsty after all that stress. "Thanks."

The brunette takes a pen from Melvin and clicks it open with an almost comical flourish. "Alright! First order of business: How do you spell your name?"

Simi giggles at her—then quickly clears their throat to hide it. Clearly it doesn't work, because Adrianne smirks at them like she's just done the impossible. "S-I-M-O-L-E-O-N," they tell her. Once she finishes their first name and looks back up at them, they continue, "S-E-R-I-F."

"Simoleon Serif," Adrianne reads out. "Gender identity?"

Their face brightens—Simi doesn't need to see it, not when their cheeks feel so warm and their smile takes over their entire face. They just hope that Adrianne and Melvin aren't one of those rude District kids who misgender people all the time. "I'm bigender!" they announce. Adrianne looks up in surprise. "You could put genderfluid instead, if that's easier to spell."

Adrianne nods slowly. She scribbles down their answer, only to pause midway and look back up at Simi. "So does that mean I shouldn't call you a boy?"

Simi nods.

"No calling you a 'he', then?"

Simi shakes their head. "Only on some days. I'll explain it once we fill out the preferred names—I use some nicknames to let others know which I feel closer to some days."

This time when Adrianne nods, she looks more than happy to go along with their instructions. Simi breathes out a silent sigh of relief. Not everyone took to it so easily back home unless they were nonbinary as well.

"I put both down just in case," she says. "Next up is biological sex?"

"I'll fill that in later." They look at Melvin nervously, then add, "Could I just leave it blank, actually?"

Melvin nods. "Go ahead."

Adrianne crosses a line through the section as soon as he says it. Simi thanks them both profusely.

"Now, then." The brunette twirls the pen between her fingers. "Tell me about those nicknames of yours."

Another giggle escapes them. Adrianne is definitely nice. "The first one is Sim," they tell her. "I use that one on my masculine days."

"One M?"

Simi nods.

"Are you Sim today?" she asks.

Simi shakes their head. "Today I'm Simi. It's Sim with an I at the end," they explain. "I use that on my neutral days."

Adrianne nods again. "So I don't call you a he on the neutral days, but instead…"

"Call me a they." Simi wrings their hands together as their nerves start to rise. Please be accepting, please be accepting, please be accepting.

"I can do that!" Adrianne fills out the form, showing them what she's written down afterwards. She's specified the pronouns next to the nicknames, neatly fitting them into brackets. "Just don't hesitate to knock some sense into me if I forget. Okay?"

They couldn't possibly do that to her, but they appreciate the thought. Simi smiles at her again and nods.

The rest of the questions are easier to get through, since they're all related to Simi's home life and what they do with their life. It's almost embarrassing explaining that they don't have an occupation lined up yet or that they never leave the house for schooling. Adrianne and Melvin take it all in stride, though, and remark how different it is from what they've done. Adrianne worked more than she was in school, but she knows enough to get by since most of her classes by now would be combat classes. Simi appreciates the way they both meet their lifestyle with positivity; normally they'd still be cautious around people from a Career District, let alone new people in general, but something about Melvin and Adrianne clicks with them. Adrianne makes them feel as safe as Jeni or Rori do, and Melvin is just as supportive as the two.

For once Simi doesn't care that they're stuck on a public transport with strangers. For once they don't care that their back isn't entirely in front of the wall. All they care about is how nice their juice tastes and how nice their mentor and partner are.

Soon enough the papers are forgotten, the two seventeen-year-olds talking about their lives back in their respective homes while Melvin sorts through the papers. Simi gushes about their dream to design fashion, going so far as to compliment Adrianne's dress, while Adrianne talks about her foster father's business and how much fun she has spearfishing. She even compares Simi's turquoise streaks and green lipstick to a seabed near her house, which makes their mind race with ideas for an ocean inspired ensemble.

Hearing about Four gives them such a fresh perspective on it; Simi already knew it was water-galore, but the way Adrianne describes what lies beneath the surface makes them wish they'd visited at least once with Rori. When Simi talks about what it's like living in the Capitol—the way it was before the very unfortunate shuttle derail just a few years ago—Adrianne looks almost stunned at the descriptions. She tells them that she's not the biggest fan of the Capitol—but then adds that she likes hearing about Simi's life. It's not a detached fantasy like she expects all Capitolites to live in, but a more relatable life that she never considered prior to today.

Then they exchange excited facts as Melvin leaves the carriage the deliver the papers to the Peacekeepers. Adrianne can hold her breath longer than most Careers in Four; Simi is a walking dictionary when it comes to LGBT terms. They exchange tokens just as Melvine comes back—(Simi had almost forgotten they'd be asked for one, but luckily they had their handkerchief on them)—and eventually drop into small talk about how glum Crowley is.

It's fun. Simi never thought they'd say that about a train ride towards the Hunger Games. It's fun and they feel so at ease, chatting away about their favourite things with their partner. Their new friend. Even Melvin looks to approve of the bond the two have built in such a short time.

It isn't until the train stops that Simi confirms it, though; they reach for Adrianne's hand and hide their face under their hat, asking her cautiously, "We'll stick together, right?"

Adrianne beams at him. "For sure. We'll knock 'em dead together."

* * *

 **And that's the chapter! I'll see you all next time for C-Districts 5 and 6! Till then, here's our chapter question!**

 **QQ #11:** Would you dive headfirst into your aspirations, or would you go at your own pace?


	18. Unorthodox Patriot and Glamourous Rebel

**I am begging you, do not expect this update speed from me ever again. I don't know how I did it, but Quatra and Morganite came really easy to me while writing this chapter.**

 **So! These kids belong to** goldie031 **and** TheEngineeringGames **respectively! Hope I did them okay!**

* * *

 **17 - The Unorthodox Patriot and the Glamourous Rebel**

 **Quatra X, 14, C-District 5**

Well, it's official. Quatra X is going into the Hunger Games this year. She's not quite sure how to feel about that—especially when everything else people expect her to have an opinion on leaves her conflicted enough as it is.

Her name hasn't been drawn yet, but Quatra knows she's going. She won't volunteer, lest she bring suspicion to the spectators and tributes who know of her family; but she's going. She's going to be a tribute this year. Octavia Faye's name being called out today was as much confirmation as her parents needed for their next step.

Tres helps her with preparing while their parents communicate with the Capitol. He snips at her hair, taking it back to its once familiar shoulder length, while Quatra mixes the swirls the bottle of dye in her hands. District Ten is right outside their window, slowly fading into the distance as its residents assume only award-winning meat is being transported to the heart of Panem. They don't know that one of their own—even if having never been born there—is leaving.

"Do you want to take out the contacts now?" Tres asks her. He sets down the scissors and picks up the mirror that had been lying flat on the table. He places it in front of her, showing how much closer she is to being good old Quatra again.

"Might as well," Quatra agrees. She hands him the bottle of dye and carefully removes the brown contacts. She blinks a few times; it's been a while since she's taken them off without having to have to sleep soon after. Another step has been taken to returning to Quatra—the grey eyes she'd been born with are free, no longer hiding behind a false identity.

It feels nice. She'll miss her old life, but it still feels nice to be Quatra again.

As Tres starts to apply the dye to her chestnut hair, the door to the hover plane's engine room opens in front of them. Quatra heaves a sigh as Una strides in with a folder tucked under her arm; it's hard dealing with her older siblings, and she'd sincerely hoped that no one would find her getting ready in the engine room.

Una leans against the table beside her younger siblings. She gives Quatra a once-over, before sighing wistfully.

" _What?_ " Quatra snaps. Tres is quick to pat her on the head, hoping to calm her. On any other day it'd work, but the conflicting feelings Quatra experiences with changes like this always leaves her particularly volatile.

"I still think Dos would be better suited for this," Una says. "You haven't even changed your clothes yet. _Someone_ is going to recognise you."

"Una," Tres warns, "you know Mom and Dad had a good reason to pick Quatra for this. You're too old, Cinca's still in training, and Dos and I are already busy with our own investigations."

Una just rolls her eyes. She grabs the file and flicks it open, barely even giving Quatra a chance to ask about it. She declares, "Anari agreed to say your name, no matter who she drew from the bowl. It took some time to convince her that we're serious about the ramifications of ignoring the order, but just in case we've included Ambert in the plan as well."

"Which District is Anari reaping for?" Quatra tries to peek over the top of the folder, but the position Tres's got her kept in stops her from seeing past the paperclip.

Una ignores her. Quatra's anger just stacks higher and higher. "Thankfully the mentor for Anari's section has memory issues, so he won't recognise you or even register why you're there," she goes on. "Our only concern is the mentor for Twelve, but I doubt he'll be able to say anything to anyone."

"You have poor taste in humour." Tres parts the hair at Quatra's neck and applies more dye to it.

"Cinca found it hilarious. But whatever." Una looks down at Quatra then. "Octavia won't see you for a long time yet, but you'd better have a good explanation for why you've got the same face and tattoo as one of her customers."

At the mention of her tattoo, Quatra's wrist feels almost like it's been lit on fire. It'd been too difficult to keep applying foundation in a place like Ten, the dirt and dust constantly peeling it away and the grass sticking to it like a magnet. It had been easier to write off as a stick poke tattoo that'd been done over a long period of time.

But it's like Una said. Octavia won't see her until after the Parade. Knowing how both she and Octavia operate, as well, it's more than likely they won't even see each other up close until the interviews start.

"I'll have my stylists cover it up," she decides. "The training uniforms come with longer sleeves, as well. It'll be no problem to hide until the arena."

Una grunts. "Not the way I'd go, but whatever," she mutters. Without another word, she waves to her siblings and pushes away from the table. The folder is left behind in her place before she walks out of the engine room to call for their parents.

Just as Una leaves, Tres declares that Quatra's hair is ready to sit for twenty minutes. He wipes his hands down the towel draped around her shoulders. "Ready to be blonde again?" he asks excitedly.

Quatra smiles at him, the expression feeling almost forced after the anger she'd built up with Una in the room. "Bit late to ask, isn't it?"

He shrugs, laughing. "Better late than never. Are you nervous?"

"A little." Quatra's gaze drops to the floor. It's hard admitting these things out loud when she's from a family that holds their roots in espionage, but at least Tres is more understanding than the others. "I was hoping it'd be a different trainee going into the Games. We haven't had anyone with rebel ties reaped in years, y'know?" And with a mumble, she adds, "It's not like the spies who go in get to leave with a heartbeat, either."

An almost sympathetic look passes over Tres's face. He can probably understand the displeasure over having their family chosen to keep an eye on the tributes this year, but Quatra can only assume he's looking to the bright side with this. Tres always sees a bright side.

"This is a Quell," he tells her. "The Districts can only win with a Capitolite by their side. When you win, it'll make sense after your identity is made clear—you've got training, you're from a family of spies. It's just as expected as a Career victory."

She scrunches up her face. Now it just sounds like he's reminding her of how much attention and expectations will be on her. Not the most reassuring thought. Quatra likes it better when everyone knows her name, but never her face. It's one of the reasons why she hates this condition of a spy following a potential means to a rebellion into the arena—it exposes them too much, leaves people with a clear image where there should only be a mystery.

But maybe it will work in their favour. Like Tres said, Quatra's probably got more training than all the Capitol kids combined; it'd make sense if she wins alongside her District partner. Or whoever she allies with, she's quick to correct herself.

"Who's Anari reaping for?" she asks softly. Tres looks almost confused for a second before he remembers the folder on the table. He picks it up and reads over it silently, before finally he lets out a short huff.

"Five. Your partner's the same age as you. Apparently he might have gotten into a fight just before the reaping," Tres reports. Quatra raises a brow at him, which prompts him to continue, "Black eye."

A rambunctious person, probably. Not the kind of person Quatra would like to spend all hours of the day with in an arena. "So Ambert is doing Six?"

Tres nods. "Her tribute fainted, and the mentor isn't as useful as Five's. More like to question us and keep an eye on you."

Quatra sighs. Either way, she'll end up with someone in her District team that won't be pleasant to work with. Does she go with the rambunctious boy and his forgetful mentor, or does she hope for the boy who fainted and his unpleasant mentor? Hoping probably won't do much to change who she winds up with, but at the very least she wants a chance to weigh each team's pros and cons.

She doesn't get much time to stay on that particular train of thought. Tres shuts the folder and hands it to her, and then he makes his way to the engine room door. "I'll keep the others away so you can have some peace and quiet," he says. "Meet me in the pilot's quarters and we'll rinse out the dye later."

Quatra nods and watches him leave. For the first time in what feels like years, she's been granted the peace and quiet she loves so dear.

...

"Name and age?"

"Quatra X, fourteen."

He looks down at her in shock—the first of countless stunned gazes that will be on her today. Quatra reaches up and fiddles with her hair nervously. "That'll be three slips," she tells the official.

With a surprised squeak he punches her name and age into the device, and three slips with her name on it are printed out. They're dropped into the ever-mixing bowl of names, tumbled around and becoming lost within. She's granted entrance, left to her own devices inside the courthouse as the rows fill and fill.

District Five and Six get the smallest pool of Capitolites to choose from. The area surrounding the courthouse is filled with mostly stores and restaurants, the residential area being a good mile or so away. All of the girls attending today know each other, quite possibly all being from the same school altogether. Quatra will stand out even without her name being called out—and that's without taking her reserved appearance into account.

Groups of friends form as more and more enter the courthouse. Colourful hairs, skins and eyes that make Quatra feel more and more like an outsider. Conversations about homework and plans for after the reapings. All but one of them will be lucky enough to get to live those plans out today.

She takes a seat towards the back, back straight and her eyes trained on the large stand the judge would normally stand at. This will probably be the smallest reaping in the Capitol today, less than two hundred young women taking their seats and filling all of the rows—even filling the jury box over capacity.

A couple of girls sit on either side of her. One with pink her sits closest, seemingly unaware of the fact that someone else is in her personal space. Maybe she doesn't have a concept of it, Quatra thinks with a glance to her. She looks to be the same age as Quatra, hair obviously straightened and reaching just above her shoulders. Her outfit, reminiscent of the party girls Quatra would hear about from Una's own investigations, definitely says a lot about the girl's personality.

The girl's friend scoots closer to her, a small vial in her hand. "Trust me, Nite," she whispers. "Karenlo was right—I took some this morning and my hangover vanished."

Nite sighs heavily. She rubs the bridge of her nose as she scrunches up her face. "Didn't you say his Mom kept it near the ipecac?"

"Maybe he got them mixed up? He doesn't drink ipecac, but he said he tested one of them before he gave them to me." The friend smiles teasingly and waves the vial in front of Nite's face. "If you don't want it, I'm sure Janine can—"

Nite snatches it. She glares at her friend tiredly. "Janine damn well deserves her hangover," she hisses. "No one drinks that much wine without facing some kind of consequences."

The doors are shut and the escorts walk down the aisle, silencing all of the girls. Nite is quick to hide the vial between her thighs, hands folded neatly over the spot for extra measure. Quatra wonders if what she'll drink from the vial really will turn out to be morphling—her friend hasn't really made a good case for this Karenlo person that supplied it.

Anari is the first escort to announce herself, looking just a tad frazzled as she greets everyone. Ambert follows soon after, and Quatra swears she looks as though she's been crying. Her stomach sinks at the sight of the two women, at what kind of things Una would've had to hold over them to convince them to call out Quatra's name. If they'd just listened and done what the Capitol told them to, kept their feelings out of the Games entirely, they wouldn't be in such states.

"Now," Anari says, and her voice cracks as she tries to continue like nothing is wrong, "I'd like to introduce you all to Tooru Ikeda and his mentor, Adam Jackson."

The person who walks out with the middle-aged mentor isn't the rambunctious fighter Quatra expected. She sees the bruise around his eye and the cut along his lip, but his face is soft—kind. The kind of face that only a peaceful person would wear, even if life pushed them into the mud. Tooru Ikeda looks every bit the nice young man she'd hoped for in a partner, and suddenly everything in Quatra is hoping for Anari to call out her name.

Please, she thinks desperately, give her a quiet partner and a forgetful mentor. Please, just humour her.

Anari looks almost like she's scanning the crowd as everyone claps at the introduction for Tooru and Adam. She passes over Quatra and Nite, then moves on to the middle row; she's trying to figure out who Quatra X will be in the crowd, but she'll know soon enough.

Ambert goes next, calling out the names Finnegan Styx and Barbara Thisbe. Quatra cringes at the name of the mentor, recalling the Games she'd won in her youth. Not a lot of people try to win through romance anymore thanks to the colossal failure that followed Barbara, with the Gamemakers going so far as to target the lovebirds just as much as the mentally unstable. Ratings are great and all, but at the end of the day _someone_ will start a riot with their love story. That's the last thing the President wants or needs.

Finnegan looks to be a fairly nice person—not as withdrawn as Tooru, but still kinder than what she'd expected. He doesn't look like he'd fainted recently, either; no, the first thing that Quatra thinks when she looks at him is that he's probably the type of person to apologise for apologising too much.

Anari's reaching into the bowl between the two escorts, and immediately Quatra sends a myriad of mental pleas to the escort. Anari looks the slip over for a second, once again scanning the crowd—and then the name slips easily out of her mouth.

"Quatra X?"

A wave of murmurs breaks out among the girls—"X? Like the spy family?"—and it soon becomes loud enough that Nite actually pops open the vial her friend had given her. Just as Quatra stands up sheepishly, heart racing as her eyes lock with Anari's, she hears Nite whisper, " _Shit, it's not morphling._ "

She hurries down to the stage, nodding in greeting to Anari. There's nothing but malice in Anari's gaze, but thankfully Quatra doesn't have to keep her eyes on the escort for long. She turns to the microphone that waits for her announcement, ready to say her public farewells.

"I'll do my best," she says simply, looking over the crowd. They're all staring at her in shock and horror, probably stunned to see such a plain girl is a member of one of the Capitol's best spy families. Now they have a face to the name, and Quatra suddenly finds herself wishing that Cinca had been asked to do this instead.

Tooru squirms nervously next to her as she steps back from the microphone. Ambert wastes no time announcing her own tribute, skipping gleefully over to the bowl now that she's free of her ultimatum. She yanks out a slip of paper in record time, spilling dozens of others onto the floor around the bowl.

"Morganite Gardierre!" she cheers.

Everyone's holding their breaths—even Quatra—as Nite stands up with her face looking as white as a ghost's. She inches out of the row, breathing deeply and with a look of absolute horror in her magenta eyes. If she's really just drunk ipecac, then these girls are in for one hell of a surprise by the time Morganite gets up onstage.

Morganite barely makes it past the middle row before her chest convulses, and the unfortunate teens in the splash zone shriek in terror. Vomit flies across the floor and seats, landing on sparkly dresses and sticking to tattooed faces. Quatra's hand flies to her mouth, mostly in amazement than anything. She'd expected Morganite to hurl chunks, but not to _that_ degree.

When she's finally, _finally_ able to stop herself, Morganite is left with a messy face that stares in horror at what she's just done. She whimpers once, twice, and then she's running over to Ambert with a mortified sob. Poor girl, Quatra thinks. Lola Amos is never going to let her live that down.

* * *

 **Morganite Gardierre, 14, C-District 6**

"I want to _die_!"

"Lucky you're going into the Hunger Games then." Barbara cleans her glasses without even looking over at Morganite.

"I—It wasn't that bad," Finn tries, but it's so _useless_ to even bother saying that! She's a laughing stock now—you don't throw up all over people on national TV without turning into a joke!

"I'm _ruined_." Morganite sobs harder into her cushion. "Even if I win they'll _never_ let me be an escort!"

He scoots closer, patting her shoulder. "That's not true—"

" _They'll call me the the Human Hose!_ " She sobs even harder, the cushion damp with tears. " _Geiser Girl! THE BLOWHOLE!_ "

Finn lets out a rather helpless sound. She hears him move away from her, his footsteps carrying him over to the table Barbara sits at. Softly, he demands of the woman, "Can't you say something to help her?"

Barbara doesn't bother lowering her voice. "Girl wants to die, let her die. Either way she's going to be a joke for the rest of her life."

She screams into the cushion in agony. Finn hisses at Barbara that she isn't helping. Barbara carelessly announces she doesn't want to help anyway.

Great. Not only has Morganite vomited on national TV, wound up in the Hunger Games, _and_ ruined her favourite vest and pants, she's stuck with a mentor who doesn't give a damn about her. This is the worst day _ever_.

Her goodbyes hadn't been any better than the announcement itself. The way her mother had scolded her for being so disobedient all the time made it sound like this _literal draw of luck_ was punishment for sneaking out last night. It's not Morganite's fault that Jourisme has a perpetual stick up her butt or that the university students held a party in honour of the kids leaving today. It _may_ be Morganite's fault that she came to the reaping with a hangover, but it sure as hell wasn't her fault that she hurled chunks all over her classmates like some kind of fire hose.

At least her father was nicer about it all, giving her a ring with the stone he was named after on display atop it. Alexandrite always knew how to make Morganite feel better, even if what he was doing made Jourisme squawk louder about Morganite needing to be ladylike and proper.

She lifts her head from the pillow just as Finn slams his head onto the table, having already given up on Barbara for support. She sniffs loudly—ugh, she'll need to take out her nose ring and clean it later—and wipes at her eyes. Her head is pounding, now suffering from a combination of dehydration and a hangover, but it's the least of her problems now.

Morganite was reaped for the _Hunger Games_. How is that only just now sinking in? How is that _just now_ hitting her when she'd been so quick to stand up when her name was called? Maybe she'd been too worried about throwing up when it happened, or maybe she was still too focused on the fact that a spy—a spy _sitting right next to her_ —was reaped as well.

She slides off of the couch cautiously. Her legs wobble, her heels not helping her keep her balance. It takes her a while, her efforts getting Finn's attention again, but she manages to slink over to the table and flop onto a chair. With another long, powerful sniff, Morganite reaches for the jug of water in the middle of the table.

"You okay?" Finn asks, and he's so close and so loud and it hurts. Morganite chokes on some of the water, coughing wildly— _headache getting worse, why, why, why_ —

"Fine," she chokes. She points to her head and shakily brings the jug to her lips again.

Finn must not know what she'd meant by the gesture, because suddenly Barbara is saying, "She's hungover, idiot."

A pair of clear blue eyes stare down at her in horror. "You're fourteen," he gasps.

When Morganite lowers the jug, she gives him a strained smile. She's _well aware_ of how old she is, and she's _well aware_ of how uncommon it is for girls her age to get drunk. " _Amazing_ observation," she says sweetly. "Now, do you know how old _you_ are?"

The horror isn't gone, but there's definitely a bit of a defensive shrink to his expression. He glances at her a few times before moving down to the next seat over, putting himself closer to Barbara as Morganite resumes chugging the water.

At the very least, she had a spectacular final hurrah with her friends. Karenlo had helped them all sneak in and out, his parents none the wiser as to _why_ his private driver was needed last night. Daaria actually let her hair down for once and had some fun, singing along with Morganite once the karaoke machine was brought out. Sandira even got a few people's numbers and made some connections with the students going into the entertainment business, which was a win for them more than anyone. As much as Morganite wants to become an escort, it's always Sandira who shoots for the wider connections and job opportunities. Morganite hopes one day they get to appear on TV or in the movies, even if for a little while.

She sighs wistfully at the events of last night. At least she'll have the _Wine Song_ to remember them all by.

By the time she finishes the jug off, Ambert has arrived back into the cart with a stack of papers in her hands. She's smiling and bouncing around with each step, heels clacking against the floor of the carriage annoyingly. Morganite still can't figure out why the walking pumpkin was so happy to call out her name. She doesn't recall meeting Ambert anywhere, and it's not like Morganite's made much of a name for herself yet in the aspiring escort scene.

So when Ambert slides the papers and a pen over to Morganite with a cheerful, "For you, sweetie!" it's pretty understandable in Nite's eyes that she acts just a _little_ miffed.

"What's this?" she growls. Ambert continues to beam at her, picking up a biscuit from the snack tray and nibbling it delicately.

"Information for the—"

"Don't care." Morganite calls for the nearest Peacekeeper to get her more water. One of them leaves immediately. "Not filling it out."

Barbara snorts out a laugh, and when Morganite looks over at her she looks genuinely amused. Maybe even a little proud.

"M—Miss Gardierre, please—"

Morganite holds up and hand to silence Anari. The woman's yellow face turns an ugly shade of orange, her cheeks puffing out angrily.

"It's imperative that you fill out this paperwork, Miss Gardierre!" Ambert tries again. Morganite rolls her eyes and grabs a biscuit. She chomps on it as loudly as possible, which only serves to make Ambert angrier. She really shouldn't be so bitter about the way Morganite is acting—after all, Ambert isn't the one who threw up after her name was called out for a death match. The door to the carriage opens again, the Peacekeeper back with a glass of water for Morganite. "Everyone has to do it, and a young lady like yourself needs to be presentable both on and off the screen—"

Morganite _accidentally_ spills her water all over the paperwork. Ambert shrieks with an almost deafening pitch to her voice. It makes Morganite's headache worse, her stomach churning again as the reminder of her classmates' screams floods through her thoughts.

Whatever Ambert wants to say to Morganite for her carelessness and flippant disregard for procedure, she doesn't get much of a chance to voice it. Almost as soon as Ambert flies out of her seat to save the paperwork, Barbara lifts herself up and slides her sunglasses back over her eyes. She nods to Morganite, a silent gesture to follow, and tells Finn to stay put with Ambert. Morganite follows without hesitation; the quicker she gets away from Ambert and her shrieking, the better.

Barbara leads her to a small compartment that looks almost similar to a bedroom, if not for the actual bed itself being missing. The door slides shut behind them, the curtains closed midway. The shade that falls over Morganite's face is almost _blissful_.

She flops onto a beanbag in the corner while Barbara walks over to the drawer on the other side of the room. There's some rummaging around for a few seconds, before finally Barbara is back by Morganite's side and kicking her foot to get her attention. When Morganite looks up at her, she sees a small bottle with something clear inside it.

"It's not morphling," Barbara says blandly, "but it does the trick. I use it instead so I don't get drunk trying to ease pain."

Hesitantly Morganite takes it from her. She pops it open—it smells sweet, like strawberries—and throws caution to the wind, taking a quick swig and immediately handing it back to her mentor. It doesn't taste bad like she'd expected it to, instead going down smoothly like a syrup and leaving an aftertaste that's just as pleasant. Barbara takes a swig as well, and then she's putting it back in the drawer for safekeeping.

Morganite watches Barbara move over to another beanbag in the room, before finally she asks, "Why do you need it?"

The woman just points to her eye, and immediately Morganite recalls the scar on her face. She didn't think it'd hurt after all these years, but clearly the wound will never leave Barbara alone. Barbara sinks into her beanbag with a long sigh.

"Listen," the woman says, "I really didn't want to mentor this year. I was forced into it by the other victors. I really don't like my District kid, and I really don't like your attitude and 'end-of-the-world' freak outs."

Morganite glares at her. "I hope there's a 'but'."

" _But_." Barbara smirks at her. "I think we can get you home and save either of us the trouble of having to worry about the Games ever again. You're more useful than the hero nobody asked for back in the carriage, and I think _someone_ will find you valuable enough to ally with. Depends on your skillset."

"Skillset?"

"We'll discuss it when we get to the Training Centre. I don't _want_ to mentor, and I don't _care_ if you or Superman die in the arena. I'm taking a chance on you that I really shouldn't be, but I am. Can you promise your best?"

She's definitely curious as to what Barbara has in store for her. Morganite isn't all too sold on the idea of making herself valuable to others, especially with how desperate everyone will be to have a Capitolite by their side before the Games start, but she really doesn't have any other game plans right now. She's got a little under a week to prepare. Maybe Barbara will give her the method to victory that nobody else can.

Morganite nods. She can feel her headache fading away as the train soon begins to slow. "Alright. I'll see if I can get some allies."

Barbara shakes her head. "You won't be looking for allies. You'll be looking for _shields_."

* * *

 **Forgive me, Lauren :')**

 **Aaaaand that's another one down! I think we're halfway through the Capitol reapings, and then it's pre-games time? Get hype y'all.**

 **QQ #12:** Would you rather be all business, or would you rather be all pleasure?

 **I'll see you all next time with our D7 and 8 partners!**


	19. Servitude and Fame

**New chapterrrrr! We've got two more and then that's everyone introduced, holy heck. I hope you all enjoy this chapter in the meantime, and that you like the characters sent in my** Platrium **and** TheEngineeringGames **respectively!**

* * *

 **18 - Servitude and Fame**

 **Cyber Tronovsky, 12, C-District 7**

Maddie is angry.

Not at him, he thinks. She's not ranting about the mess all over him, but rather the people who caused it. She's not yelling at him, but over the phone to one of their neighbours. She's not blaming him for taking too long to come home with the groceries, but the children who'd hassled him along the way.

Maddie is not angry at him.

"I don't _care_ what his status is, Petunia," she argues. "Cyber may as well be my son, and I will not tolerate such immature, _blatantly disrespectful_ treatment towards him."

A son. That's how she keeps seeing him, but legally he's just a servant. A technical Avox in society's eyes—just different enough to still warrant a tongue. He doesn't know why she keeps saying he's like a son to her; Cyber is already someone else's son, even if that someone is long dead and forgotten. Perhaps it's Maddie's lack of children prior to taking in Cyber? He'll have to look into it when she's calmer.

"Why—" Maddie's face turns red. Fury? "You'll be hearing from me again, don't you worry!"

Maddie slams the phone against the wall. The screen goes blank, signalling the end of the call.

"I'm so sorry you had to go through that, Cyber," Maddie sighs at him. She grabs a teatowel and starts wiping at his face, peeling away at the mostly dried paint that'd been lobbed at him. "I'll make sure he _never_ bothers you again."

He nods, and says a blank, "Thank you, Madam Maddie."

She smiles at him sweetly and plants a kiss on the top of his head. Cyber reaches up to the spot and feels it; his hair isn't like other people's, far from silky. Does it bother her when she touches it? Does she not care?

"Tell you what?" Maddie wipes at his chin. "After the reaping, we'll go somewhere nice. Take a holiday somewhere. How does that sound?"

Cyber stares up at her with wide eyes. "Can we look at the new computers that came out?"

Maddie cringes at the request. Did he say something bad? He'll have to make a note of it and refrain from suggesting it in the future.

"I was thinking something a little more…" Maddie finishes cleaning his face. She pats him on the shoulder with a smile. "More natural."

"Natural?"

Maddie nods. "They've recently opened up the arena from the Ninety-Seventh Games to the public," she explains. "Don't you want to see the tree that changes colours? Try the fruit?"

He turns his gaze to his feet. It's practically pointless to ask Cyber if he'd prefer something, especially since he'll never have an opinion for someone to refer to. No matter how much Maddie gives him choices, he'll have no inclination towards one over the other. He can only say what pleases her, and it's fairly obvious what she'd _like_ to hear from him right now—he just can't say it without lying.

Cyber doesn't say anything quick enough. Maddie just pats him on the head and walks out of the room with the teatowel still in her hands. He assumes she's taking it to the laundry—something he normally should have done.

When she returns to the kitchen she has her handbag slung over her arm, her wrinkled face back in its gleeful state. "We'll work it out after the reaping," she decides. Maddie holds a hand out to Cyber, waiting patiently for him to take it. He does, noticing just how different the textures of their skins are.

Maddie's is bumpy and soft, stretchy enough to be pinched and pulled at—natural. Cyber's is smooth and free of blemishes, barely a trace of creases that normal joints and knuckles have—blaringly unnatural. His hands weren't always like this, but after he'd gotten sick his father could only do so much to make him look as natural as possible.

Maddie gives his hand a reassuring squeeze as she leads him towards the front door of her lavish house. "Do you remember how to register?" she asks him.

The information springs right into the forefront of his mind. "State my name and age," he recites monotonously. "Make absolute certain to count each slip properly."

The woman pats him on the head approvingly. "There'll only be one slip," she says, "but that's absolutely perfect."

"Thank you, Madam Maddie."

She opens the door, the sun hitting them with enough warmth that even Cyber can feel it in his joints. It's time to go to the reaping.

…

Dover Street. Corialanus Garden. Construction finished two years and twelve days following President Snow I's death. Opened to the public on the late President's birthday anniversary. Known species planted in the gardens: _Aster tataricus_ , _camellia japonica, chrysanthemum indicum, narcissus pseudonarcissus_ —

"Name and…" The official trails off at the sight of Cyber. He looks the boy up and down, and immediately Cyber begins running through the different questions and insults that have been thrown his way in the past. The man looks around nervously before calling out to the adults, "Has someone misplaced their mannequin here?"

"My name is Cyber Tronovsky," Cyber says blankly. The man flinches and looks down at him, uncertain of what to do. "I am twelve years old and require one slip of paper for the reaping."

"H—Hold on a moment, kid." He quickly turns around and presses his finger rapidly to the smart watch around his wrist. A small phone symbol pops up on it, and Cyber is quick to take note of the clear plastic earplug in his ear. "Janice, I need a second opinion. No, no—not gender technicalities. There's this thing that looks like a little kid, I think it's a mannequin one of the stylists misplaced."

Cyber blinks up at the man. "I used to be wholly organic," he jumps in. The man glances at him, suddenly looking paranoid, and returns to his call. The line behind Cyber is getting more and more impatient, some of the boys cutting into the line beside them.

"Says it's twelve, but it looks like it was modelled after an eight-year-old." He clears his throat and nods fractionally. "Alright. Just in case, can you run the name 'Cyber Tronovsky' through the birth records?" The man pauses, and then his eyes bulge. "You're shitting me…"

"I was born in Three," Cyber provides, but his statement goes ignored yet again.

"Alright. Yeah, it's weird. I'll ring it up and send it in—call its owner and let her know." The man presses a finger to the tiny screen and his attention is back on Cyber. Without another word to the boy he simply writes in his name to the machine in his hand, and then he dumps the slip of paper with Cyber's name into the bowl.

When Cyber doesn't move immediately to enter the garden, he snaps, "Move it!"

Cyber scrambles through the glass doors and finds himself among a sea of young men who are trying to find a place to stand with their friends. The way the Capitol conducts its reaping is a very different affair compared to the Districts; all the children Cyber had once watched be sectioned by age and name would be envious of all the siblings and friends who won't be separated until the last minute. Cyber really doesn't have an opinion on the difference, since this is his first and last reaping. It'll be over soon enough, and he'll continue living in service of Maddie soon after.

He wanders over towards a large hedge that's been cut into the shape of a lion. Thrice his size and it looks to be well taken care of, every leaf a luscious green that Three never had while he was there. Cyber rakes his eyes up and down the hedge, taking in the details as best he can before the reaping starts.

Just as he's back at its face, two pairs of hands shove him hard at his shoulders. He stumbles forward a couple of steps, but his balance is kept thanks to the weight of his inner framing.

"Damn it," a familiar voice growls. "You didn't push it hard enough, Hans."

Hans just tells his friend to shut up and demands Cyber's attention with a sharp, "Hey, Cyborg!"

Cyber looks over his shoulder blankly at the group of boys. They're the very same who had pelted him with baby food earlier today, now armed with apples and oranges that they snack on obnoxiously. Tanner—the one who'd scolded Hans—snickers at Cyber and nudges one of the boys with his elbow.

"Its eyes still glow in the day," he laughs. "What's even the point of that?"

"Poor workmanship," Hans says around an orange slice. "Couldn't even make the skin look real."

Cyber lifts his hands to his face, staring at them with a tilt of his head. They all laugh at him then, and Hans adds in a cooing voice, "Aw, did the little Tron Boy get his feelings hurt?"

"Not at all," Cyber says. They all shut up, now glaring at him for daring to reply. "Why do you always try to torment me? Most bullies get satisfaction from seeing their victims in distress, but I don't feel that. It never bothers me, so why do you do it at all?"

Hans and Tanner look at each other, their scowls mirroring each other's. "He's got a point," one of their friends mutters shamefully. "It's boring when he doesn't react…"

Almost like the boy's just set off an alarm system, Hans turns on his heel and punches the boy square in the jaw. He topples to the ground and cradles his face in his hands, abandoned by the group as they turn their sights back to Cyber.

Tanner pulls a bottle of water from his backpack and quickly pops open its lid. "Wonder if it's waterproof," he starts again.

"Please don't." Cyber looks up at him with a blink.

"Oh?" Tanner hovers the bottle over Cyber's head. Cyber doesn't move an inch. "Hit a nerve? You gonna short-circuit?"

"No." He pinches at the collar of his button-down, unfolding it briefly so Tanner can see it. "Madam Maddie would be upset if I got my clothes dirty at the reaping."

And there it is—the proof Tanner needed to actually believe that Cyber would be no fun for him to bully. The green-eyed boy just sneers, flicking his wrist and allowing the water to splash onto Cyber's head. It drips down the hard strands of his hair and pools at his shirt's shoulders, some of it slipping through and dripping from his fingertips, before finally at least half of the water has finished pooling around his feet. He looks down at the mess—the water on his jeans might make it a bit hard to walk for a while—and then looks back up at Tanner and Hans. The boys are already on their way, hunting around for more fruit to chew on.

An announcement is made for the boys to gather at the middle of the garden, where a round stage waits for them. Cyber shakes his hands out once and wipes at the back of his head, flicking as much water off as possible, before he begins to make his way over.

He's one of the people right up at the front, the circular stage almost two heads taller than him. He'll be lucky to see whoever stands up there from here, and the same could be said of him moving further back. Cyber's easily one of the smallest kids here, and he doubts he'll be given a step to stand on in order to see.

The mentors have already clambered up onto the stage, helping each other up with familiar smiles. They must be friends, he thinks, because why else would competing mentors pat each other on the shoulder and ask how their wife and child are faring? The burlier one calls for someone named "Ham" to hurry up and get onstage, and the slowly growing crowd soon begins to part for the two District tributes set to be introduced. The escorts follow closely behind, keeping to themselves more than the mentors are.

Once the duo arrive at the edge of the stage, mere metres from Cyber, they pause to take in its height. The blonde girl, purposefully leaning off of one of her feet, makes an attempt to climb up on her own—but she slips and shakes out her arms with a nervous smile.

"Guess I'm a bit out of practice," she mutters in a raspy voice. The other girl—burlier, shorter—kneels down and clasps her hands together, holding them just high enough for the blonde to step up onto them. She does so, wincing as her foot—swollen and red, Cyber notices—is lifted by the shorter girl. She flies up, her upper body safely over the stage, and then her mentor is offering her a hand for the rest of the ascent.

The shorter girl has a little less trouble. She simply stretches her legs and jumps as high as she can, and then pulls herself over the edge with a soft grunt. Her mentor pats her on the shoulder with a half-hearted, "Good climb."

The escorts are given steps by the Peacekeepers, making their ways onstage as the reaping bowl is lifted up behind them.

District Seven and District Eight look to be polar opposites in tributes. One with blonde hair, one with jet black. One with grey eyes, one with blue. One with pale skin, one with a deep tan. One with suspenders and loafers, one with a dress and choker.

Cirrus, the escort for Seven, greets everyone with an unexpected cat pun. Half of the boys around the stage groan, but Cyber just stores it in the back of his mind for later. Maddie might like the puns if he uses them at home.

"I have with me today Meowgnolia Hammond and Phylhiss Nyamilton!" she cheers. The tribute buries her face in her hands while the mentor heaves out a _very_ audible sigh. "Give them a round of appaws, effurryone!"

The mentor for Eight snorts into the palm of her head, amused gaze stuck on the Seven duo.

Greve, the same age as the eldest of the boys gathered, gushes over her mentor's name. "I have the _legendary_ Charlotte Harper here! Still the holder of the highest kills in a single Hunger Games." And then her face deflates, a single glance at her tribute before delivering a flat, "And Chambray Hemingway."

They waste no time getting to the reaping. Cirrus dips one hand into the bowl with a mewl, making more cat puns with her good luck message to everyone. She yanks her hand out and meows victoriously.

But the moment she looks at the name on the slip, her face sours. Seconds pass, and then a minute, before "Phylhiss" gasps and stares at Cirrus with wide eyes.

"She can't come up with a pun," the tribute wheezes. "Meowgnolia" sprints forward and snatches the slip from Cirrus, eliciting a screech from the feline woman.

"Cyber Tronovsky, get up on this stage before I drag you up myself!"

Oh. That's his name. Cyber supposes he has to get up onstage immediately, then.

He steps forward and raises a hand, probably only appearing as said hand to the duo from Seven. One of them darts over to him, grasping his hand tightly, and then she's cursing under her breath as his weight becomes apparent. They probably think he's an overweight boy.

Just as half of him makes it over the stage, "Phylhiss" grunting with each pull to his hand, Maddie's voice echoes through the crowd. She's calling for him, saying all manner of things. _He's special. He shouldn't count. Cyber was never born a Capitolite. He's only a child. He different_.

"Phylhiss" looks visibly more and more annoyed by Maddie's cries, but Cyber doesn't focus on it too long. Something slimy hits his back, a half-eaten lemon flying past his shoulder and landing by his District partner's feet.

"Good riddance!" Hans shouts. Some adults are telling him to hold his tongue, but he just keeps on yelling across the crowd. "I always wanted to know if androids could bleed!"

There's multiple gasps throughout the crowd, and Maddie just goes into a fit of fury. Cyber thinks he can see her once he's up onstage properly, but the adults crowding around her and telling her to calm down make it a bit difficult. "Meowgnolia" inches towards him, a hand landing on his shoulder as Greve tries to demand the crowd be silent.

"Cyber," she mutters, and when she really looks at him he can see her expression change. She's noticed the little things that make him look _not quite_ human enough. "Are you a real person?"

Cyber nods. Then he looks down at his feet. Well, maybe he doesn't count as a real person to anyone else, but to him it's logical to think he is. He was born like any other person. He had a family like any other person. He used to feel things like any other person. And now he continues to live like any other person. But that's never enough to those who don't like to open their minds.

He looks back up at her and nods again. "I was born in District Three," he tells her. "Phylhiss" looks at him with sudden disdain just as Greve finally has the crowd quiet again. "My dad made this body for me when I got sick. Some parts of me are still from my old self—like my brain." He points to his head. "I'm just… different. Yeah. Different."

"Phylhiss" pulls "Meowgnolia" away from him desperately. The woman looks down at her with a similar expression of frustration. "They'll off him before the countdown even ends," "Phylhiss" insists. "A Goddamn robot—that can't be legal by the Games' standards. They'll sabotage Seven and say we were cheating!"

"I'm not built for combat—" Before Cyber can finish the sentence, Greve shrieks at the top of her lungs and breaks into a giddy laughter. All eyes are on her, on the magnificent blush on her face as she fans herself with her free hand.

"L—Luxor Aricun—" She cuts herself off with a loud screech that, based on what Cyber knows about the elite of the Capitol, does a good enough job of finishing Luxor's surname. He's only ever seen pictures of Luxor on billboards and posters, showing off the latest season of fashion, so he already has a clear idea of what Luxor looks like as he turns back to his mentor and partner. He has to take care of some important issues, though right after one last thing he has left to do in the Capitol.

Cyber really should apologise to Maddie for making her worry again today.

* * *

 **Luxor Aricunai, 17, C-District 8**

This is certainly not how he saw his day ending. He'd been so comfortable being a Capitolite, knowing that he'd _never_ see the Hunger Games through a first person perspective, but now look at him. He's on a train with District Eight's mentor and tribute, sitting in absolute silence as he processes what's just happened.

The paperwork is easy to fill out and send off, leaving Luxor to ponder the rest of the trip about his team. He's heard of cool and collected Charlotte before, her kill count being a thing of legends among the victors who visit the Capitol—Chambray, though, he'll still need to learn about. Capitol kids survive as long as they have a District kid with them, right? So it'd be natural that Luxor's first step is to get to know his partner and ally with her for as long as possible.

He scowls. He doesn't like the rules of this Quell, nor the conditions for the District tributes to win. It feels so brutal to actually get into the mindset of a tribute, thinking about who will be helpful and who won't. Not to mention Luxor will eventually face his own insecurities once the other tributes show off their abilities—what if he's not good enough? What if he's just dead weight in the eyes of the District kids?

Luxor glances over at Chambray. She's busy looking through one of Charlotte's books, nose scrunched up in distaste at its contents. Will she consider him useless? What if she sees him as equal? Luxor definitely won't get special treatment from any of the District tributes—none of them would know who he is outside of his name announced by Lola—but the fact that he was given to a textiles District won't go unnoticed by the public. A few other people might give him special treatment, but he sincerely hopes Chambray never does.

The girl sets down the book and sighs. She shifts in her chair, the red swelling around one of her ankles more apparent from where Luxor sits. He wonders if she had an accident as she was leaving Eight. He hopes it's not something that'll get in the way of training.

"Do you have anything on medicines?" Chambray asks Charlotte, and immediately Luxor cringes at the sound of her voice. It's the voice of a chainsmoker, of someone who's long since lost the youth of their speech too early. He can't imagine how it'd become so raspy. "Plants?"

Charlotte looks at Chambray, then at the book left on the table—Luxor can just barely make out the title, _Beyond the Square: A Guide to Crochet for Advanced Readers_. Part of him wants to strike up conversation with the duo, but they both seem too set on distracting themselves with books.

Almost as though proving him wrong on purpose, though, Charlotte just shakes her head. "Let's talk for a while," she sighs. "I've got some tips I'd rather you both know before training starts."

Chambray sinks further into her seat and nods, meekly looking down at the table. Luxor clears his throat, lifting himself off the couch, and takes a seat right next to Chambray.

"We didn't get to greet each other properly earlier," Luxor says, putting on a charming smile. "I'm—"

"Luxor Aricunai," Chambray mutters. "I've heard Greve fawn over you enough not to forget it."

"Right. Sorry." He scratches the back of his neck. He _really_ hopes Greve's freakout over being in the same room as him hasn't affected his mentor or his partner too badly.

She looks him up and down once, smiles apologetically, and says softly, "I'm Cham. Chambray, but everyone calls me Cham."

"Like the fabric." Luxor grins down at her. "Is that what your dress is made of?"

Cham pauses before nodding. "Yeah. My brother has the same name as the pattern on it, too."

He barely wastes any time announcing it. "Calico."

Cham nods. Charlotte lets out a small cough, the kind that's meant to gain attention on purpose, and halts their conversation. There's a small frown on her face as she looks at Luxor and Cham—and keeps her eyes on Cham for longer than expected.

"Look at you two, bonding over _fashion_ ," she says blandly. Cham goes tense, her lips tugging into a bigger frown than Charlotte's as she glares at the woman. "Do you want to wait until we get to the Training Centre to even _talk_ about a plan?"

Cham shakes her head quickly, but Luxor thinks there might be something more important at hand. Cham won't be able to do much with that sore leg of hers—he can't have been the only one to notice her slight limp and the swelling around her ankle.

"Shouldn't we get something to help Cham's ankle?" he asks.

Now Charlotte goes rigid, her hands clenching into fists within milliseconds. She looks at Cham with wide eyes, and when Luxor checks the girl he finds that she has a similar expression.

With what feels like an almost forced calm, Charlotte asks, "Why didn't you tell me your ankle still hurt?"

Cham clears her throat. She looks down at the table, purposely keeping her face free of Luxor and Charlotte's gazes. "I thought I could play it up to make the others think I was an easy target. Surprise them. The ankle's still fine."

The topic is dropped with a speed Luxor has never seen before in a conversation. Charlotte nods approving, the deer-in-the-headlights expression not quite gone yet, while Cham pushes herself out of her chair and declares that she wants to take a short rest. She disappears through the next cart, leaving Luxor behind with Charlotte, and it's the most awkward thing he's ever had to sit through.

Luxor's had interviews that brought up topics he'd rather keep personal. He's had people flirt with him only to find out he's younger than he looks. He's even had embarrassing conversations with his friends and Hira over his own health and diet. But this silence after Cham's retreat takes the cake.

He doesn't want to say it out loud, but Charlotte is _intimidating_. That no-nonsense look and the way she talks with absolutely professionalism. Only lawyers and judges during Luxor's fashion shows do what Charlotte does, and he won't deny that it makes it nervous. Part of him wishes he got the mentor who fought the escort for the name on that paper, but then he'd be left with being called "Luxpaw" or something every day. Not the most ideal thing to put up with leading up to the Quell.

He sinks into his seat with a frown. No one he knows will probably find out about this until his reaping is played back by Lola for all to see. Darios—Luxor's own _father_ —won't find out that his son is in the Games until Luxor presents a talent in his private session. Relope won't be able to get hold of her husband to tell him the news, left to wait for her son in an empty house on her own.

It's not just his family either. Hira was the only one who'd given him something to remember everyone by, generous enough to let Luxor borrow the scarf for the reaping. Luxor may not have been big on agents and all those suits and how stuffy they are, but Hira Mahonan is a treasure. She at least gave him something to hold onto and bring him back home. He wonders if she's calling Valerio now, telling them the bad news. What would she say? "I'm sorry, Mx. Requio. Luxor's going into the Games this year." Formal like that?

Valerio might not take it well. Gemini might take it worse. She always took him with her to those parties, always played the wingman when they were feeling frisky. Modelling can be cutthroat, but Gemini's a real friend. He hopes he can see her again.

"I know that look."

He startles. Charlotte's staring at him, a somewhat softer gaze on him than before. It's a look of understanding, of sympathy.

"You do?" he gasps, trying to calm himself again. Charlotte nods.

"I was going to give you something practical in the way of advice," she says, "but I think what I'll say now will click better with you."

He nods. Charlotte takes in a deep breath and knits her fingers together loosely. "If you want to give yourself something to work towards," Charlotte tells him, "picture the one person you'd give everything to be with again. Someone you couldn't bear to leave behind if something happened in that arena."

A face flashes through his mind—nights of giggling and frenzied kisses, of warmth at his back and arms around his waist. He's been trying to keep from thinking too much about how this will affect Jarlos, especially since Jarlos lives closer to the section designated for District Five and Six. He doesn't want to imagine what will happen. He doesn't even want to dwell on it himself either—as far as the two boys were concerned, their whole relationship was just flirting and sex. They had fun and trusted each other, but they were never what anyone would call a couple.

Luxor brings a hand to his chest, his heart suddenly aching. He needs to put the topic back onto Charlotte. Focus more on her. "W—Who was it for you?"

Charlotte's eyes slowly close, her face a mask of calm and serenity. After what feels like an eternity, she whispers, "My wife."

A wife. Okay. This is a good conversation topic to focus on. He can focus properly if he talks about Charlotte's wife instead of Jarlos.

"How'd you two meet?" He swallows a lump in his throat. "Were you dating before you were reaped?"

The woman shakes her head. "I met her the night before I went into the arena," she says with a fondness to her voice. "Her family had just kicked her out and she only had the nicest dress she owned and a pair of heels to her name. I didn't like spending time with the other tributes, so I happened upon her asking for a spare room from the Gamemakers."

Charlotte's wife is from the Capitol? That's a bit of a surprise to hear.

"It was her birthday." Charlotte smiles wryly. "She thought she'd be safe to come out to her family, but they weren't having it. Taffy ran away and her parents didn't bother to look for her."

"How'd you get to spend any time to get to know her if it was the night before?"

She opens her eyes, and once again the smile turns soft and sweet. A happy memory. "I ran into her while I was still in my interview dress and lied about her being part of my prep team. She stayed the night in my room." Charlotte sighs wistfully. "She was supposed to dance with her friends on her birthday. I did my best to give her one. Best waltz of my life."

It's surprisingly sweet to hear. Luxor almost wants to meet Charlotte's wife now, see such a loving relationship before his own eyes. With Jarlos it's always passion and lust fueling them, but the way Charlotte describes hers sounds almost like the opposite.

"I promised myself I'd give her a beautiful home with all the clothes she wanted inside if I won," she goes on. "I never wanted to see her cry again unless they were tears of joy." Charlotte's gaze flickers to Luxor, brows raised expectantly at him. Oh no. "Now that I've just revealed a very _personal_ motivation of mine, why don't you tell me about who you'll win for?"

He winces and sinks lower into the seat. It's not like he's going to win for _just_ Jarlos. He has other friends and family to fight for, an entire city of people who want him to come home. It's not just Jarlos. Jarlos isn't the only one Luxor wants to come home to.

Jarlos is just the only one who makes his heart ache so horribly, already missing him and the touch of his skin.

"He's…" What does he say? His relationship with Jarlos isn't like Charlotte's and Taffy's. What if she mocks him for this? What if it's not a strong enough desire to come home to Jarlos alone? "We're not really an item, but…"

She's patient with him. She just watches with an expression free of impatience, her hands folded neatly across the skirt of her cheongsam.

"Jarlos is physically to me," he tries, "what Taffy was emotionally to you."

Charlotte gives him a half smile and huffs out a small laugh. "As long as it means something to you, it's enough to work towards. I'm sure Jarlos would do the same."

Luxor breathes out a sigh of relief. It's enough. All the need to feel Jarlos's warmth and to share the same space is _enough_. Luxor really doesn't know what he can do in terms of fighting, but his desire to go back to his loved ones—the one who makes his heart ache most—is _enough_.

Fame of the Capitol and fans be damned, he's going to come home to the one he wants to be beside.

* * *

 **And that's the Seven and Eight Capitol kids! I'll see you next time for the Nine and Ten kids, and until then here's a QQ!**

 **QQ #** **13:** Would you want to defy stereotypes your job places upon you?

 **Vaguely connected to the theme of the chapter, but I hope the status quo popped up enough to hint at it at least!**


	20. Redemption and Egocentrism

**OKAY OKAY SO I CANNOT STRESS THIS ENOUGH, BUT TO FULLY ENJOY GOSSAMER'S DIALOGUE AND THOUGHTS YOU'VE GOT TO IMAGINE DIO BRANDO FROM JOJO'S BIZARRE ADVENTURE'S VOICE. My personal recommendation for a youtube video example is "It was me, Dio!" simply for its meme status tbh.**

 **Anyway! One more left after this and we're up to pre-Games! Big thank you to** david12341 **and** josesukehosuke **for these characters respectively!**

* * *

 **19 - Redemption and Egocentrism**

 **Epsilon Church, 17, C-District 9**

"Church?" Leonard's voice is hard to hear through the door and over the shower. But he can recognise the sound of it well enough. "It's almost time to leave."

Church pulls his face out from under the shower head, steam blocking his vision and filling his lungs. The water burns his skin, red blotches all over his hands and torso. He doesn't mind, though—hot showers are his favourite.

"Coming," Church calls back. He doesn't hear Leonard leave, but the silence is confirmation enough. He twists the faucet until the water stops running. A cold chill runs over Church, but he's quick to grab a towel and step into the heat of the overhead light. Church wipes at the mirror closest to him almost absently—he could focus on his appearance for the reaping, or even check to see how much the hot water had burned his skin. Church wishes he could focus on those when he catches his reflection's gaze.

The scar is always most noticeable after a shower. The hot water makes it redder, makes it stand out even more than he wants it to. Church reaches up to the top of the scar—starting at his forehead, just above his left eye—and slowly runs his fingers down its trail. Once he reaches his chin, he heaves out a heavy sigh and pushes his hair out of his face as best he can.

As Church exits the bathroom, he calls out to Leonard, "Have the phone ready to call Dr. Bellamy."

From the study, where Leonard waits for him halfway down the mansion, his guardian calls back, "Yes, Church!"

White tee, black athletic shorts. He stares down at the two articles of clothing Leonard pulled out for him, an almost fond smile on his face. How long has it just been the two of them? Two years? Three? Church looks longingly out his doorway to Sarah's room—bed neatly made and barely a speck of dust on her dressers. His scar starts to ache, knowing exactly how long Leonard's only had to look after Church.

One year. He puts on the tee as he reflects on that time. One whole year since it all went wrong, since Church's very presence turned their lives upside down. One year since he was legally left in the care of the family's butler, Leonard Cain. _One year_ since he messed up his _one chance_ at being happy.

He scrubs at his damp hair with the towel, forcing Sarah's room out of his view. He needs to stay focused today—no time for wallowing and self deprecation when another opportunity waits for him. He'd been waiting for a day like this to come, for a chance to get the money Sarah so desperately needs. Church had just never expected it to happen so soon, while the loss was still fresh in his mind and the money saved up had yet to run out.

Church walks out of his bedroom with his towel over his shoulder. He skips the bathroom, not bothering to style his hair, and heads straight for the study. He can hear Leonard's voice in the room, already addressing Dr. Bellamy as though he'd known _exactly_ when Church would walk through the door. The man grins at Church when he enters.

"Thank you, Doctor," he says, nodding. He rises from the chair, leaving it vacant for Church to take. As Church settles in, looking over the notes Leonard had written from Dr. Bellamy, Leonard adds, "This is very appreciated, Doctor. I hate to cut this short, but unfortunately my employer and I are on a tight schedule today. I'll hand you over to him to take over."

Church takes the phone with a neutral expression. The notes all have positive things to say about Sarah, no changes since the last time he visited her. He looks up and gives Leonard a thumbs up, just as Dr. Bellamy greets him.

" _Miss Church has been doing very well,_ " Dr. Bellamy informs him. Church hums in acknowledgement. " _We're hoping to see some improvement, but it's too difficult to say at the moment._ "

"Does she still require the life support?" Church asks. Dr. Bellamy sighs heavily at the question.

" _We'd hoped after all this time that she wouldn't need it, but she hasn't shown any signs of breathing on her own or remaining stable without certain machines._ "

Church pulls the phone from his ear and muffles the speaker in his shirt. He hangs his head in dismay, his free hand squeezing the bridge of his nose as he mutters, "Damn it."

When Church moves the phone back to his ear, he says, "Doctor, I'm going to be going away for a while. As we speak I'm having Leonard transfer enough money to keep paying for her treatment for another three months."

Dr. Bellamy let out a curious sound. " _Where on earth could you be going at a time like this?_ " When Church doesn't answer, Dr. Bellamy gasps and begins yelling at him through the phone. " _You're not serious! You're going to compete in some fool's quest for glory? Now of all times? Mr. Church, it may not be my place to say it, but Sarah needs you_ —"

"And I'm doing it for Sarah," Church tells him calmly. "My mother wasn't made of money, and everything she's left us is slowly running out the longer Sarah doesn't improve. A victor's allowance and special benefits is exactly what I need to help her."

" _What you need is a job or to start a charity fund_ ," Dr. Bellamy growled.

"Thank you for your work so far." Leonard walks back into the room, nodding to Church slowly. "The money is on its way now. I'll see you after the Games, Doctor."

The silence in the study is solemn once he hangs up. While Dr. Bellamy is right about the Hunger Games being a fool's quest for glory, Church doesn't have any other option. Nothing he does will make him as wealthy as his mother's invention did years ago, and no one would bat an eye at some beggar boy wanting to help his sister. Well, he thinks after a second, maybe some will spare him a second glance. But they'll all ignore him in favour of gossiping to what _tragic_ thing they'd seen today to their friends.

Everyone's too concerned about themselves to help two kids on their own right now.

His hair is virtually dry as he leaves the study. He hands the towel to Leonard and lets out a long, tired breath. This is vastly different from his original plan. Church had trained day and night for the past year in the hopes that he'd be able to sneak into a District at some point, volunteer and go into the Games without a hitch. He might not have succeeded with that plan, though, which makes him all the more anxious to volunteer today. The one time luck is on his side, and he won't waste it for a second.

Church looks at Leonard with as much of a smile as he can muster—which isn't really better than a grimace. "I'll be home in a few weeks," he declares. Leonard nods, and then reaches into his jacket's inner pocket.

"I grabbed the necklace you asked for," he says, pulling the silver chain out. A small silver pendant—the symbol of Church's namesake, the letter epsilon, engraved at its centre—bounces up and down as it tumbles out of Leonard's jacket. "Cleaned and polished, just in case."

Church smiles a little more, genuinely pleased by the action. He takes it and clasps it around his neck, then tucks the pendant under the collar of his shirt.

"Am I doing the right thing?" he asks Leonard. The older male looks at Church with an unreadable expression, almost unwilling to let his thoughts show.

After what feels like an eternity, Leonard nods. "Your heart's in the right place. Just make sure you come back. Be the first to greet her."

Church nods. Very awkwardly, the two hug for half a second. Backs patted and gruff, "Stay safe, man," departures exchanged between them, and then Church is walking out the mansion and into the world.

He lives a short distance from the train station, where he'll catch the next train to the opera house. It's the closest landmark to his house, but still far enough that a good majority of Capitol kids need to transit there. He doesn't mind it, necessarily—gives him a good chance to steel himself and harden his resolve, though Leonard would argue that there's no need for that. Church is stubborn. Church won't back down once he finds a path that leads to a solution.

A car drives by him, the coating a bright candy red. It's the same make and model he'd driven last year, and he almost expects it to start swerving and squealing. The smell of rubber burning against his nose is hard to shake, and even as he stands he feels a weight on his lap. If he looks down, will he see Connie Church's face? Will he see the head balanced between his knees as blank, glassy eyes watched him in terror?

Church shakes his head as the car turns the corner. Of course he won't. He may not have known her for long, but the good memories of his mother will always keep that one bad memory at bay. When Church will look down, he'll see neat shoes without a single hole in sight—a gift from his mother, the life she gave him once she found out where he was.

His ticket doesn't cost much, and he takes a seat in the farthest cart of the train. It's mostly young boys with him, a small group of friends sitting to his immediate left and filling the solemn silence. He lets his eyes wander to the countless screens displaying advertisements, lingering on one that advertises life insurance.

Does he need life insurance? He never considered it, but he's going into a death game with slim chances of coming out. Leonard would've suggested it if it was important, especially since there's still at least half a year's worth of money to support Sarah. With the added three months he covered today, maybe life insurance won't be necessary. She might wake up within nine months.

Church sucks in a deep breath, tearing his eyes from the screen. She might wake up the day he goes into the arena. She might wake up the day he gets on the chariots. She might wake up the moment he volunteers. _She might be awake as he sits here, throwing away his life for a one in twenty-four chance._

It hurts to think about it. He'd be content knowing she woke up if he'd died prior, knowing he'd at least tried to help somewhat. He could atone for his mistakes by taking an eternal rest while she gets to live her life. He can finally reunite with his mother and watch Sarah from afar, move onto the next life knowing he'd _tried_.

But he still wouldn't be able to talk to her. Not being able to hear her voice and to hold a conversation with her—it'd kill him twice.

"—out, man. I'm gonna volunteer as soon as possible."

Church's head snaps up to attention. It's one of the boys across from him—orange hair, mullet—who made the announcement. His heart hammers in his chest as he stares and listens, alarms going off in his head.

"My sister dared me to," Mullet goes on, "and I'm not some chicken, y'know? Don't worry about who's going."

No. No, no, no. If he volunteers, he'll take Church's spot. He'll take Church's chance to save Sarah. _He'll keep Sarah asleep_.

Rage flares in his gut as he clings tightly to the safety bar beside him. How does he stop him? There has to be a way to make sure Church is the one who volunteers—not Mullet. But how? Short of breaking the boy's leg, there's really nothing he can do before they arrive at the opera house. Church might hesitate for a millisecond too long, lose his chance to this asshole in front of him. He has to deal with him now, or else it's all for nothing.

The driver announces over the speakers that the stop beside the opera house will be approaching soon. What does he do? _What does he do_?

"Hey, dude," Mullet calls out. Church startles. He's been caught staring. "What's up?"

 _What's up is that he's ruining everything for Church_.

"Thinking," Church replies smoothly. "Must've just been looking at you without _looking_ at you."

Mullet laughs. It's a hideous laugh. "Been there, amirite?" He nudges his friend in the gut with his elbow. "Mrs. Winston is such a _bore_ when she does lectures."

Maybe breaking his leg might be a good idea.

The light over the doors flickers on. Their stop is here. It's now or never.

"Actually," Church says, waving to get Mullet's attention, "I was wondering if we could chat real quick?"

The train stops, and Mullet's friends tell him they'll save him a seat. Mullet nods and waits as everyone else walks off the cart, and then he and Church slowly make their ways to the doors. Church hovers just outside the doors, keeping Mullet a good distance to the train.

"What'd you need?"

Church shrugs. He looks down at Mullet, and it becomes sorely apparent how old Mullet must really be. He's got to be a little older than fifteen, maybe even fourteen still. Throwing away his life and Sarah's chance at recovery— _all because of a damn dare that wounded his ego_.

"I heard you say you were going to volunteer. How come your sister dared you?" Church shuffles on his feet as he counts the seconds. It should be thirty more before the doors close. Half a minute.

Mullet snorts. "Krissy's a bitch," he says, and the rage just grows. _He should be grateful he even has his sister_. "She was messing with me, but I'll prove her wrong. I'll volunteer and get tips from Rye on winning."

Church hums. He nods, counts the last ten seconds. "Might be a slight problem," he muses. Before Mullet can ask why, Church kicks him harshly in the gut and sends the boy flying back into the cart. Mullet coughs and gags, tears in his eyes as he stares up at Church in confusion.

Just as the doors slide shut, Church says, " _I'm_ volunteering. Not you."

The train begins to move backwards, retreating to the last station for its regular patrons. Mullet screams and yells at Church, an obvious tantrum being thrown as the train disappears from sight.

No one is stopping Church from saving his sister. _No one_.

* * *

 **Gossamer Wormwood, 17, C-District 10**

"Gossamer Wormwood!"

" _I volunteer_!"

Well. That panic was short-lived. Gossamer lets out a deep breath and sinks into his seat, releasing his grip on Sol's hand. The burlier boy just stares up at the ceiling with a near-panicked expression, almost like he'd been scared to lose his ex to the Games.

"This is a waste of time," Gossamer growls into his palm. Sol looks at him and laughs softly, a cruel lilt to it.

"You're only saying that because your name is no longer an option," he teases.

"Six."

Sol hums curiously.

"We're in there six times each, Sol. Do your damn math."

"Whatever, whatever."

The boy that volunteered takes the stage with a confident stride, and the first thing Gossamer notices is the long scar running down the side of his face. Gossamer scrunches up his face at the sight of it—it's so ugly, why does this guy keep it? Doesn't he want to look good, being from the Capitol?

He announces himself as just Church, which some people laugh at. Gossamer is included in this group, snorting to himself over the boy's attempt at being hardcore. He can't tell what's worse: If the hardcore act isn't really an act and he seriously believes he's hot stuff, or if it turns out to be a ruse to try and get sponsors for being _mysterious_. Either way, the Mysterious Tribute Who Volunteers is a _very_ overdone character type for Gossamer.

Church goes to stand by the District Nine team. The small whelp that seems to be representing them this year just shies away from the boy, her hands clasped tightly in front of her as she continues to shake. She's an instant death this year, Gossamer thinks. The fact that her mentor had clarified her "ears didn't work good" is proof enough of that. Said mentor—Rye Coven, still fresh in the minds of the Capitol—just grins knowingly at the two tributes. Gossamer wonders if she's concocting a plan similar to her own Games victory. It wouldn't be difficult, and the more abled of the two Nine tributes won't be punished for winning on his own.

Rye's the perfect mentor for a Capitolite, actually. Gossamer rubs his chin thoughtfully as he watches them.

The Plastic Surgery Terror reaches into the bowl next, her mentor and tribute standing a good distance from her. Gossamer observes them carefully, trying to pin a character type on them both. Straight-faced, arms crossed over their chests; they mirror each other almost perfectly, if not for the aged look in Dianne's eyes as she watches the crowd. Gossamer thinks the tribute's name is Octavia or something, but he really doesn't care. She looks just as capable as that Church guy, so what's the point of expecting a different character archetype?

Besides, he thinks as the escort pulls out a slip, she's too plain-looking to be main character material.

The escort mumbles something through those gargantuan lips of hers. The name she read out is practically unintelligible. Dianne lets out a heavy sigh, eyes rolling almost completely into the back of her head as she takes the slip from the woman. Gossamer snickers into his hand softly at the poor attempt at an annoyance on the escort's face.

"Gossamer Wormwood!" Dianne booms. Gossamer's hand drops from his face, and suddenly his lips twitch up into a sneer.

 _What kind of bull_ —

Sol's hand is shaking as no one speaks up to volunteer, and when Gossamer glances at him he can see the fear in the burly boy's eyes. His mouth opens and closes, pitiful attempts at speaking barely heard by even Gossamer.

"Useless," Gossamer growls. He throws Sol's hand back into his lap and stands up, cutting Dianne off as she calls out his name a second time. "I heard it the first two times, trust me!"

He can see the headlines coming in the days to follow. _Prestigious son of one of the most high ranking Peacekeepers in the Quell_. _Gossamer Wormwood: The Next Big Thing from the Games._ He can't help smirking to himself at the second one. Of course he's the next big thing to follow. People don't follow Gossamer's every whim for nothing, don't just bow down to him when he says so _for nothing_. He's important and more than that, Gossamer knows how to play the mind games some tributes entertain. Years of watching and studying past Hunger Games, learning about the characters of each season, will give him an edge these District kids can only dream of having.

He stands beside his District partner, and when he glances down his nose at her he can see the light reflecting off of his hair and onto her face. The way he styles his hair—altered to be mistaken for silken gold—is reminiscent of a crown; and it pleases Gossamer to no end when he sees his crown shining down on those beneath him. He smirks, still watching the rays of light on the girl's face, before the reaping comes to a full close.

…

Dianne wastes no time getting on his case. Gossamer has to put up the mask sooner than he'd hoped.

"You're Raime's boy," she states, barely looking up from her torte. Gossamer nods, examining the nail polish on each finger. He'll have to reapply the same colour on some. "He teach you anything useful for the Games?"

"No," he half-lies. He's been taught things, but not by Raime. Besides, if there's one thing he's learned about getting good allies that keep you on a pedestal, it's that you impress them at the last minute. He's better off hiding his own abilities, avoiding people accusing him of being "unfair" for being trained by one of the elite.

Dianne hums. "Octavia," she continues. Octavia looks at the woman over her water. "Are you comfortable working with Gossamer?"

The girl barely misses a beat. "Does it matter?"

If the question had been asked of Gossamer, he'd come up with some bullshit lie about Octavia being weighed down by his lack of experience. Truth be told, though, he doesn't see her as _useful_. Not naive enough, not dumb enough—the fact that she didn't give a straight answer just now proves that much. No, Octavia is nothing like what Gossamer needs to win. She won't see him as important now that she's heard him deny any training.

She's like Sol with a working brain. And Lord knows Sol was troublesome enough at times _without_ one.

"If I may," Gossamer cuts in. Dianne pops a piece of her torte in her mouth lazily. She doesn't bother looking at him— _how dare she ignore him_. "I'd be a little more comfortable scouting the other tributes first. Not every District pair winds up as allies when they're not Careers."

"I agree," Octavia says. He looks at her with wide eyes. "I'm particular about who I'd work with in an arena. I'd rather leave the snap decisions for when the time calls for one."

Dianne nods. "Alright. Just remember to know where the line you'll never cross is drawn, and who does and doesn't stay within those boundaries."

Oh, she'd know a lot about crossing lines. Gossamer had a hard time stomaching his snacks when he'd watched Dianne's Games, especially with how often the spiders bled on her. It's difficult to see the effects those nights had had on Dianne now, but reviewing the Victory Tour tapes over and over made it clear to Gossamer after a few days. The countless roasted meats being rejected with a pale face and the way she'd worn gloves every time she stopped somewhere—Dianne developed some kind of phobia in her youth that must have been dealt with at some point, but whether or not the fear of meat remains has yet to be seen. He'll have to watch her keenly every night to see what she requests to eat.

Out of nowhere, Dianne looks over at him again and asks, "What do you think of this Quell, Gossamer?"

Why can't she just let the silence settle? It's only five minutes until they arrive at the training centre. Why force conversation? He gets that she needs to know about him a little, but Gossamer really doesn't like having to keep track of what he's told certain people.

"I'm a fan of the Games in general," he decides. Octavia looks to him with narrowed eyes, displeased by the answer. What the hell does she expect? He's from the one place in Panem that _lives_ for this event. "I'd been hoping to observe the Quell from the comfort of home, but I'm confident my knowledge of the Games itself will suffice in the arena."

Less the Games and more the profiles he's learned to make of tributes. But Octavia doesn't need to be paranoid of him psychoanalysing her yet.

"You and eleven others," Octavia points out. Gossamer breathes in deeply through his nose. Don't snap. Not yet. She'll face his wrath for questioning him when the time comes.

"I could say the same about your chances of winning," he exhales, "but honestly, I think you have a good shot at it."

Both females look to him in alarm. Octavia looks like she's been caught completely off guard, while Dianne looks as though she hadn't expected the answer from him.

"You're keeping me at arm's length," he goes on, "which means you won't blindly trust someone who approaches you. You've got decent muscle mass, and you're neither under or overweight. Coming from a District where cattle run rampant, I imagine you've got some skills with heavy lifting and herding animals."

"Is this your attempt at asking me to be your ally?" She glares at him suspiciously.

"Just my opinion," Gossamer says innocently. She doesn't like him—maybe he can tip this in his favour, just get back at her a little bit and psych her out. "You should try for the Career pack."

As Octavia's nose scrunches up and she physically turns herself away from him in her seat, confetti flies in Gossamer's chest. Barely even in the training centre and he's already swayed someone away from the strongest group of competitors. If Octavia was a little more like Sol—a little more trusting of Gossamer, for better or worse—she'd have gotten in with the Careers regardless. They always scout blue-collar District kids after the wins that came from Magnolia and Charlotte joining packs.

Octavia might turn into a project of his if he can keep swaying her decisions. Maybe he can narrow down who she allies with by pointing out unpleasant things about other tributes that most would find appealing. Maybe he can isolate her entirely, force her away from every other Capitolite in the arena and sabotage her chances of winning. The possibilities are endless.

Silence, blissful and peaceful, finally overtakes the cart. Octavia keeps sipping at her water while Dianne finishes her torte, and Gossamer can finally delve into his thoughts. He saw some of the reapings this morning from the Districts, but now that he's in the Games he supposes he should review what he knows.

Altan Knight… Typical proud character who has hair-trigger anger. He'd be easy to provoke and sway, maybe even use reverse psychology on. Gossamer's always wanted to try that on someone. Cetronia Livius… A faux villain. There's no other way to describe her, aside from "Amazonian warrior" with a snicker to boot. She'll come off as threatening with her height and confidence, but Gossamer will bet money on her being outdone by a bigger bad.

Daphne Petheraph is a surefire bloodbath. Tourettes is probably the worst thing to have in the Hunger Games, and if she's lucky she'll experience a movement tic that sets off her pedestal. That'll be the quicker death, at least. The girl from Four—Adrianne?—definitely doesn't look to be Career material. She'll be abandoned by Cetronia and Altan for sure.

Toe—he doesn't care what the kid's actual name is, he's calling him Toe—looked like he was shitting himself up onstage, so Gossamer doesn't have to worry about meddling with him. Kids like Toe always shoot themselves in the foot somehow. Finnegan, the volunteer from Six… Well, fainting isn't a good start. Maybe Gossamer will focus on him a bit if he can learn what makes him tick. Every noble sacrifice has its limits, he likes to think.

Phyl _hiss_ —

The train comes to a halt, an announcement coming from above them that they've arrived at the training centre. Gossamer rises from his chair and stretches with a groan. These train seats are just as uncomfortable as the opera house rows. Dianne wastes no time shoving the rest of the torte in her mouth and leading the teens out of the train. Octavia keeps a good distance from Gossamer, which he appreciates more than she knows. Now he doesn't have to worry about someone insisting they follow him everywhere and pretend to be best friends.

They step off the train just in time to spot the reapings for Eleven and Twelve being set up outside. Gossamer watches blankly until the doors shut behind him, and then he's being led to the elevator as Dianne presses the floor for the stylists.

Time to put on a show, he thinks with a small smile. These kids won't know what hit them. They won't expect him to come out of left field and take the victory.

The Quell victory is his for the taking.

* * *

 **Nine and Ten done! Eleven and Twelve are next! Let me know what you think of these two characters.**

 **QQ #14:** Would you focus on your own happiness, or do everything you can for someone else's?

 **I'll see you all next time!**


	21. Naive and Inquisitive

**AAAAAAT LAAAAAAAAAAAST!**

 **We're at the final reapings and then we'll be doing the pre-Games shenanigans. Hope y'all are prepared for some of these interactions I've got up my sleeve ;) Great big thank you to** HogwartsDreamer113 **and** CelticGames4 **respectively for these characters.**

* * *

 **20 - Naive and Inquisitive**

 **Avita Clements-McMillan, 15, C-District 11**

Avita huffs loudly while her mother finishes up grooming the bright pink poodle in front of her. Ever since she'd found out which Districts would be represented by the area she lives in, Avita's had a perpetual pout on her face. Why did it have to be the lamest of the lame ones? Why couldn't they do One and Two outside the training centre instead of Eleven and Twelve?

"Sweetheart," Florentina says slowly. "You'll make your veins pop if you keep them puffed out like that."

She quickly deflates her cheeks and rubs her hands over them.

"Sorry, Mom," Avita mumbles. She really doesn't mean to make such a fuss over all this, but it's one of those times where she can't help it. What if she gets picked and winds up with the _worst_ Districts ever? The kids from there probably don't even know what poodles are!

The kids from Eleven and Twelve probably eat poodles to keep from starving…

Avita groans and flops onto the couch. "Why did it have to be them?"

"It's how the cookie crumbles, sweetie. Those who live closest to the Training Centre are assigned to Eleven and Twelve."

The door flies open, Avita's other mother speeding into the room with a rapid _click clack_ of her heels. There's a huge grin on her face, sticky notes stuck to her notebook with small words scrawled over them.

Varinia Clements is in her element with the sudden inclusion of Capitolites in the Quell. She lives for the Games like everyone else, and being a celebrity gossip columnist probably helps with that enthusiasm. Victors basically become honorary celebrities until they do something momentous with their earnings—and Varinia is right there to report it, spreading the news far and wide. Avita likes knowing about those victors; they won an honourable fight, which means they have every right to be with the best of the best of the Capitol.

Well. Except maybe the outer District victors. Avita's still torn on them.

"You wouldn't believe it," Varinia announces as she approaches her wife, "but Luxor Aricunai himself is in the Games."

Avita crawls off of the couch and grabs for her mother's jacket. " _The_ Luxor Aricunai!?"

Varinia nods. There's a childish glee in her eyes, one Avita hasn't seen since Nirav Cashile won the Ninety-Third Games. It's a glee that says gossip is abundant in this Games, that Varinia will be on top of the magazine sales with everything she'll gather.

"We've got some other interesting ones too—the Warwick kid and Raime Wormwood's son."

Florentina gasps loudly at that. " _Two_ high ranking Peacekeepers' sons?"

"I know!" Varinia sidesteps over to the couch. She pulls Avita with her, sitting her daughter down by her side as she reads over the other sticky notes. "Oh, Flor, do you remember that car crash last year with the single mother?"

Her wife applies the finishing touches to the poodle's coat, satisfied with how clear the pastel pink dye has come out. "I think so? What about it?"

Varinia's giddy smile gets even giddier. "The kid who was behind the wheel _volunteered_!"

Avita watches as her mothers chatter about the news. The way they all talk about how the Peacekeeper children wound up with a Career and a strong girl sends a wave of envy through her, another pout making its way to her face. Why does everyone else get the good Districts while Avita has a chance at the lame ones? It just isn't fair at all. She shouldn't even have to have that risk in the first place, being from the Capitol. The Hunger Games are meant to punish the Districts; putting Capitol kids in for such a silly reminder is dumb.

It'd be easier to show that reminder through Peacekeepers and laws.

Underneath all that bitterness, though, Avita is scared to death. She's a _Capitolite_. She's never supposed to go into an arena and fight for her life, even if she has a one in twelve chance of winning among her peers. The thought of picking up a weapon, of getting blood on her hands… It's scary and sickening.

Varinia jumps off of the couch and leans down to peck her wife on the cheek. Avita scrunches up her face and looks away as Florentia turns and aims for Varinia's lips. PDA always makes her uncomfortable, even if it's good to know her mothers still love each other as much as they did when they adopted her and Philo. Varinia giggles and tells Florentina she'll be home as soon as she can, and then attention is back on Avita.

"Ready to go, hon?"

Avita's never crawled off the couch faster in her life, even compared to the earlier news about Luxor. She takes Varinia's hand and walks out of the room with a final goodbye to Florentina. Before they even reach the front door Philo is sprinting after them and begging to come watch.

Avita won't deny that she'd enjoy having Philo around for comfort, but the obsession he has with District Three will probably get on her nerves again. She doesn't care for the nerds who come from there, even if one of them turned out to be just as ruthless as some Careers in the past. There really won't be a lot to see with Eleven and Twelve, either. As far as Avita knows, they're nowhere near as intelligent as what Three produces.

But Varinia relents, and Philo is quick to take his mother's free hand and stride out the door with them. The eleven-year-old gushes and gossips about what the tribute from Three seems to be like, even mentioning a girl calling out a percentage while the tribute walked onstage.

"She must've been one of the smarter ones," he goes on as they get into their car. "I did the calculations and she was right on the mark!"

"That's amazing, Philo!" Varinia starts up the car. She reaches over and pats Avita reassuringly on the knee, earning a weak smile from her daughter. Philo is forgotten as the sound of the engine fills the silence, but Varinia wastes no time jumping into Concerned Mom Mode. "You doing okay, hon?"

Avita sucks in a deep breath. She reaches up and carefully pats her curls, making sure her afro is still in place. "As fine as I'll ever be in this."

"Well." Varinia drives out and into the street, joining the line of cars heading towards the Training Centre. "If it's any help, I think you'll do _great_ if you end up in the Games."

It doesn't help a lot— _she doesn't want to even be in the Games_ —but Avita still appreciates it. If Games-crazy, all-loving Varinia thinks she'd do great, then it'll all work out okay.

"Mom is in the upcoming Dog Show after the Quell," Varinia adds. Avita immediately perks up. She loves it when her mother competes in the Annual Capitol Dog Show. "I'll see if I can get us a peek backstage to look at all the poodles up close, hey?"

Avita lets out a small squeal. Seeing all those dogs before they go out and strut their stuff? _Getting to pet them?_ It's a dream come true, especially since the VIP box isn't as glamourous as she'd hoped.

"You're the best, Mom!" She leans over and tries to rub Varinia's shoulder. The seatbelt clicks and stops her from moving too close, apparently thinking Avita is flying about. "I hope she wins."

"Me too, hon." Varinia smiles softly. It's the smile of someone who adores their partner with all their heart, willing to go through Hell and back for them. "Me too."

…

"Avita Clements-McMillan. I'm fifteen."

Varinia waves to her as she and Philo join the crowd forming outside the Training Centre. Avita waves back, just as the official says to her, "All set. Take a spot wherever, Avita."

She walks over to the crowd of children forming before the doors. There's some girls she recognises from school, some girls she's noticed live on her street. Avita chews her lip as the nerves start to act out. She shouldn't be going through this. Only those dumb, lawless Districts should be doing this.

Avita looks left and right nervously as she settles into her spot. It probably won't be long before they start with proceedings, especially since she can see both escorts standing quietly by the Training Centre doors. There's no signs of mentors or tributes, which leaves Avita feeling even more uneasy about who will be chosen.

A lot of kids her age have been reaped before. She has just as much odds of going in like they did. _It's scary_. Avita just has to cling to the hope someone older will be reaped, remind herself that some reapings have resulted in volunteers so far. Like that kid Varinia told Florentine about. And he volunteered for rowdy District Nine! That's, like, the lowest standard of District, even compared to Twelve and Eleven!

No, she reassures herself. She won't be chosen. Even though there aren't as many people here as, say, the Opera House, there's still too many for every single slip with her name on it to matter. She'll be able to laugh about it later at the dog show, tell her woes to a poodle that takes her fancy.

At the thought of the dog show, she reaches up to feel along her afro for her hair pin. The poodle shape is hard to miss, though sometimes Avita worries it'll fall out or something. Thankfully it's right where she put it this morning, still on display and letting everyone know she means business when it comes to canines.

Feedback echoes through the crowd, and Avita quickly slams her hands over her ears. The escort for Eleven covers her mouth with a look of horror, quick to retreat to the two teens that have just arrived. Twelve's escort takes the microphone instead, a distasteful glare aimed at the poor woman with the teens.

"Ladies," Twelve's escort announces, "welcome to the final reaping for this year's Quell."

Two others arrive at her side, one a stoic man and the other a shaking, wide-eyed child. Avita can feel bile rising in her mouth. It's just the Hunger Games. The District deserve this—her moms always said so! This is their penance. They _deserve_ this.

But none of the Capitol children here do.

"I am Buttercup and with me are Cole Aish from District Twelve and…" She scrunches up her face, the most vivid picture of offense and lividity on her face. "Nirav Cashile," she growls through her teeth. A few of the adults boo, though Avita isn't sure why. He won the Games for his year, so he should be treated like the other victors. Right? What did Nirav do to make people hate him so much?

She watches as one of the teens from Eleven makes a gesture to Nirav. The boy raises his right hand, only his smallest and index fingers pointing out of his fist; he touches the index to his nose before sweeping the hand down to his chest, his small finger making contact.

Nirav shrugs at him. It's the look of, "No big deal," that she's seen Philo do sometimes over his homework. Nirav isn't bothered by the booing. He's just taking it in his stride.

The escort from Eleven tries again with the microphone, looking every bit like she wants to run into the Training Centre and cry. Avita wishes it was for the kids, but she knows a mortified expression when she sees one.

"And I'm Carlina," she says after a moment of silence. "With me are Jareth Vilna from District Eleven—" The more underweight of the teens looks up at his name, though the closed-off expression offers nothing to his first impression— "and Barley Tanton."

The one who'd gestured to Nirav waves nervously. He looks as though he wants to say something, but it gets caught in his throat as everyone else ignores him.

Two hands dip into the bowls between them. Carlina looks down at her slip almost blankly, somehow unaware of the held breaths and clutched hands in front of her. One more, they're all thinking. One more, and then we're safe for the rest of our lives.

Carlina pushes her cat-eye glasses up her nose and calls out, "Is there an 'Avita Clements-McMillan'?"

She freezes on the spot. Avita recognises her name—the precious name her mothers gave her—but her legs just aren't responding. Nothing is responding. It's like she's just now ejected her soul from her body thanks to… To the what? Shock? Surprise? Horror? She can't even tell what she's feeling right now.

Distantly, through the crowd of adults circling them, she can hear Varinia calling out to her.

" _You can do it, baby girl!_ " she yells at the top of her lungs. Avita's head slowly turns in the direction of her mother's voice, to the sight of Philo propped up on Varinia's shoulders to get her attention. " _You'll be amazing, Avita!_ "

" _Talk to the girl from Three!_ " Philo adds with his hands cupped around his mouth.

Avita sucks in a deep breath and purses her lips tightly. No one's volunteering. Her family is already bidding her farewell. She might as well walk out before they drag her out.

She holds her head up high. She will swell with bravery, prove her superiority. Avita is certain of it. Once those District kids see her moxie, they'll be clambering to make her their ticket out of the arena. She marches out of the crowd and chest and cheeks puffed out in an attempt at looking strong. She catches Jareth scrunch his nose up at her—disrespectful, rude—but otherwise she is left to stand in silence by Barley.

Carlina leans down and whispers, "I'm sure you'll do great, Miss Clements-McMillan."

"I'm from the Capitol," Avita replies, not quite as quiet. "Of course I'll do great."

Unaware that she'd spoken loud enough for others to hear, a cheer and a round of applause ripples through the crowds. Some strangers are commending her for her brave face and patriotism, while some of her friends yell insistently that she'll never go a day without sponsorship gifts. Heat rises to Avita's face, a beam slowly making its way across her cheeks.

She _is_ going to do great. Varinia never lies about Avita's success, no matter what.

Buttercup pops open her slip once the cheers die down, and she barely wastes any time calling out the name. "Florence Fontana!"

There's silence, lasting for almost a full minute before the Peacekeepers start standing on their toes in search of the girl. Some girls are shuffling around, searching amongst themselves. Avita's never heard of a Florence Fontana, but surely at least one of them has.

And then the grunts and shouts come.

"Ember, no!" An older girl weaves through the crowd, her face as white as a ghost's as she appears to drag someone behind her. " _No_! We're supposed to go to the aviary after this—we always do!"

The high pitched voice finally has a face to go along with it. The older girl looks similar to Avita and another girl in the Games this year—palate-wise, she corrects herself. Bright blue hair and bright pink eyes, but unlike Avita she's littered with tattoos along her arms. She drags out a smaller girl behind her, and the first thing she notices is the crocheted owl hat that covers half of her head. Opposite to "Ember", the smaller girl's hair is pastel pink and styled in two low pigtails, and she looks more like a fan of pastel colours and cute frills compared to the other's punk-inspired getup.

The smaller girl tries to yank her hand away, but "Ember" is quick to pull her into her arms and give her a tight hug.

"We can't today, Owlet," Avita barely hears Ember say. "It's the rules."

This must be Florence, she realises as her stomach drops to the ground. She looks the same age as Avita…

Florence ignores the punk girl, calling over Ember's shoulder, "Dad! Dash!"

"Florence…" Ember pulls away. Florence looks up at her with her bottom lip stuck out.

"What if they don't have owls in the arena?" the smaller girl whimpers.

It's an odd exchange for sure. It gets even more odd when Ember walks Florence over to the Twelve team, only to suddenly snatch the mentor by the collar of his shirt. Nirav looks absolutely terrified at the sudden aggression, and Avita considers herself lucky to catch the snarl from Ember that follows.

" _Protect her with your life, or else_."

* * *

 **Florence Fontana, 15, C-District 12**

Every third Thursday of the month they're supposed to go to the aviary. It's their routine, their norm. They always plan around it for Florence's sake, so why can't they just do it today?

She struggles against the mentor's grip as he leads her into the Training Centre. Beside her is the small, dark-haired boy who looks scrawnier than a wet owl. He stares up at her with wide eyes, almost intrigued by her appearance. Florence ignores him somewhat.

"Let someone else do it," she grunts. The mentor just keeps his grip and drags her along, letting her shiny black flats scuff along the floor. Florence grunts louder. "I have to go to the aviary!"

The child by her side pipes up, "What's an aviary?"

He barely gives her much time to answer when he adds, "Why does your hat have eyes?"

"An aviary is a bird house, Mr. Aish," Buttercup answers through gritted teeth. Florence looks up at her, holding her stare for a few seconds, before a harsh glare settles on the girl. Is she angry? Florence isn't sure. Angry looks so different with everyone else—it gets so confusing. "Did you honestly have to make such a spectacle of yourself? For crying out loud, Mr. Aish did better than _you_ when his name was called."

She didn't do anything bad. Florence just wanted to go to the aviary and see the owls again.

"We always go—"

" _Enough_!" Buttercup's nose twitches along with her brow. She sends her glare in Nirav's direction after interrupting Florence. "First _you_ and now _this_. You'd better prove two negatives make a positive, Avox. If you can't get her to cooperate then I will personally see to it that you never see the light of day again."

Nirav holds her stare evenly. Is he not bothered by the statement? Florence would be if she wasn't allowed to see the sun again. Though she's not sure how the short, wiry escort could see to it personally.

"Honestly," Buttercup sighs. Is she still talking to them? She's not looking at the trio, so Florence can't say for sure. "Lola is going to have a field day mocking us again this year."

Florence perks up immediately. Lola? She's going to see Lola so soon? She thought it wouldn't happen until the interviews—will Buttercup be taking her to Lola?

Florence shoves past her mentor and gets right into Buttercup's face, beaming at her. The owl hat on her head almost falls off, already loosened from her earlier struggles. Florence hurriedly tugs it back over her forehead and asks, "Can I see Lola now?"

Buttercup gawks at her. "Excuse me?"

"I've always wanted to meet her," Florence goes on. "She's so pretty and funny. Did you know she was top of her class when she studied for her psychology major?

"Miss Fontana—"

"Do you think she likes lollipops?" Florence bounces on the balls of her feet. Ooh, this is so exciting! "I know she loves cotten candy but that's the only sweet thing she lets anyone know she likes."

Her partner tugs at her red skirt, earning a glance from her. "What's cotten candy—"

"Only Lola's most favourite sweet _ever_." Florence moves to him now, keeping close as they walk down the hall. "She's amazing, you know. She was ranked number six on the Capitol's most eligible bachelorettes four years in a row, too! Lola must have so many people chasing after her."

Florence sighs dreamily. She'd give anything to hug Lola just once. No—she'd give anything to be able to stay with Lola forever. She's the mother of her dreams, charismatic and witty and beautiful. And she meets all the famous people all the time in and out of the Games!

And with that thought, she hurriedly tightens her short pigtails. There's famous people in this Quell. Luxor Aricunai— _the_ Luxor Aricunai—is a most definite standout. She wonders what he'll think of her owl hat. With the loving care her mother put into crocheting it, he _must_ think it's beautiful! And it's an owl—what's not to love about the animal it was modelled after?

Florence sucks in a deep breath. Her fingers clutch at her skirt as she realises Buttercup is talking again, but the words don't sink in. She's about to meet two of her idols, one of them being her ideal celebrity parent. Despite all the uneasiness she's had towards the Games lately, Florence feels… What's the word? Her stomach is in knots and her face feels like it's tingling, more energy than usual flowing through her limbs. Is it ecstatic? She's not good at telling the difference between most feelings—but she knows this one isn't a bad one. It's not the swelling eyelids and hoarse throat she'd felt when her mother had passed. This is a good feeling.

A good feeling, she thinks. She'll have to ask Ember what it is when she gets home.

"Do they have owls here?" she blurts out loudly. Buttercup lets out a loud screech, her face turning bright red.

"I was talking—"

"Will the Gamemakers let me see one?" She looks up and down the hall. Where are they now? There's an elevator up ahead, but no signs of doors along the hall. When had they turned the corner behind them, she wonders? "Like the one from the Forty-Third Games?"

"What was the Forty-Third Games?" Her partner tugs at her skirt again. She beams down at him. All these questions make her feel light in her chest, like she's ready to explode with dozens of answers at once.

"It was a Hunger Games that had a _giant_ owl guarding the Cornucopia," she explains. Florence throws her arms out to emphasise—and whacks Buttercup's hat off of her head. "It was a cute barn owl, too! One of my favourite birds. The last I heard about it was from an old news report saying it'd died a natural death in captivity, but I just _know_ the Gamemakers will make more!"

The small boy's wide eyes light up. Something about the owl has caught his attention, even as he nearly trips over his own feet. "Are canaries like owls?"

Florence scrunches up her face. Compared to an owl, a canary is a tiny thing. Fragile, too.

"Canaries are a lot smaller," she decides. "Brighter, too."

Cole points to himself. "I'm a canary."

"You are?" Florence gapes down at him. There must be something about him that makes him feel close to canaries, she thinks. It's like her with owls, but less noticeable. Given the old "canary in a mineshaft" image, though, the coal dust he's covered in makes a little sense with the connection to the bird. So Florence points to her hat and declares, "I'm an owl!"

Her mentor snorts out a laugh, only to smack his hand over his mouth and walk faster towards the elevator. Buttercup mutters, "You're childish, is what you are," before she reaches out as far as she can and presses the button to summon the elevator.

She rocks back and forth on her feet as the elevator rises. Silence fills the space for only a few seconds, the view of the nearest homes just behind them, before an unmistakable voice sounds out over the speaker.

Florence squeals into her hand when she recognises Lola's voice.

"Shut _up_ ," Buttercup snaps. "They never do this unless it's important."

She clamps her hand over her mouth and nose, trying to plug as much noise as possible while she listens to the announcement. Florence would hate to miss anything _Lola Amos_ says!

"— _and I will be your host this year. Due to the nature of this year's Quell, Head Gamemaker Nero has requested that all Capitolite tributes_ — _who will henceforth be referred to as C-District tributes_ — _attend a meeting with her after the Parade concludes. You will be required to gather outside the office on the tenth floor, no mentor or escort needed. Thank you for your time and_ —"

"And may the odds be ever in your favour!" Florence shouts alongside Lola's farewell.

Another muffled laugh from her mentor. Another scrunched up face from Buttercup.

"This feels different," Florence babbles. She starts rocking back and forth again, clinging to the rim of her owl hat. "It's a good different—I've never felt like this before. All ' _whee!_ ' in my stomach and ' _woosh!_ ' in my arms. I hope my face doesn't start to hurt. Ember always teases me about pulling a muscle in my cheeks. There's forty-three facial muscles, so there's always a chance I'll do just that one day. Oh! But Lola can do it for so long, so maybe it's a practiced talent. I should practice my biggest smile while I'm here for her—do you think she'll like me if I do that? I hope she does. I really love Lola so much! Do you think she'll let me touch her hair or try on one of her costumes before I go into the arena?" Florence gasps. "Do you think she'll want to _adopt_ me because she loves me so much?"

Cole tugs on her skirt again. "You talk a lot," he says simply.

"And that horrid explanation of how you feel is probably excitement," Buttercup deadpans.

"Yes!" Florence waves her arms about. "Excitement! That's it! I'm excited to meet Lola and Luxor and all the mentors and escorts. Maybe I'll even meet the President!"

That'd be amazing to live through. Sitting at a table with President Snow, Lola and Luxor, chatting over owls and eating their favourite foods. Maybe Luxor's parents can join too, since Darios is a Gamemaker. And Ms Nero! How could she forget Malvolia Nero? She looks like a snowy owl with her white hair and tattoos and golden eyes.

Florence sways left and right as the elevator slowly comes to a stop at the floor their stylists are waiting on. Maybe Luxor will teach her how to ballroom dance—he used to take lessons—and maybe even design her some clothes. Even though it's not inherently obvious to most, Florence is proud to say she can tell the difference between an outfit designed by Valerio Requio and an ensemble designed by Luxor Aricunai within a second. She's always liked the stuff Luxor makes better, which has her even more anxious to see him.

Even with how off it all feels, this is the best Hunger Games ever!

"Just go through here and meet with your stylists," Buttercup says as she gestures to the doors ahead. More people are in the room, filing towards the double doors with different expressions. It takes Florence a second to realise they're the other tributes, here to also meet their stylists. Well, more she doesn't realise until she sees Luxor with legendary Charlotte Harper by his side.

Florence practically sprints in after them, leaving her team in the dust. She stays focused on the silver hair and fur jacket, her breathing getting heavier and heavier as she runs through each greeting. What does she say? She could ask so many things right now, but it'll all come out at once and ruin the moment for her. What's most important? Can she skip the usual hello most people prefer? She could jump right into proving how dedicated a fan she is, couldn't she?

She sucks in a deep breath and readies herself to call out to Luxor. She doesn't notice the boy behind her until he harshly slams his shoulder into hers, knocking Florence to the floor. She lands on her hands and knees, head suddenly cold as the weight of her hat leaves it. Florence's breathing hitches for a different reason now. The whooshing and excitement is turning into something else. The butterflies are tormenting her now, trying to flutter up her throat and out her mouth.

Florence clamps her hand over her mouth as she frantically reaches for her hat. It's right in front of her, within arm's reach—and then it isn't, kicked further into the room by a girl in suspenders. Florence doesn't like how she's feeling now. She doesn't like the bad feeling rising in her chest. She doesn't like the shake in her shoulders and the downward pull of her lips. She needs to get her hat. She needs her precious hat. She needs to stay her mother's little owlet.

Another hand reaches down for the hat, and for a moment Florence thinks it's going to be stolen away from her. She squeaks weakly, her eyes stinging as she stares up at the owner of the hand. The boy can't be much older than her—maybe two years at the most—and the smile on his face is warm and apologetic. It reminds her of how North, Ember's girlfriend, would smile whenever she wanted to cheer Florence up. It reminds her of warm hugs and kisses to her cheek, Frances Fontana telling her to be herself no matter what.

The sound that crawls out of her throat would probably be called pitiful by Buttercup.

"Is this yours?" the boy asks. Florence nods frantically, already on the verge of hyperventilating. He hums with interest before opening the bottom of the hat. Florence just watches with wide eyes as he lifts it over her head and snugly sets it back in place. She stares at his teal button-up, at the blue eyes filled with only kindness. "Better?"

She nods again. She grabs the end of the hat and clings tightly once again. "Thank you," she squeaks. "It's a really special hat."

"I'll bet," he agrees. The charming smile on his face reminds her of Dashiell's gentlemanly expressions. "Which District are you representing?"

"Twelve." Florence watches as Cole enters at last, his attention stuck like glue to the room and its countless curtains. "What about you? I didn't—I only saw the last five reapings."

"Six," he tells her. "Do you want to walk with me until we get to my area? Yours should be after it."

It's a kind offer. Florence looks over her shoulder at Cole again, the boy finally noticing her, and she nods. "Can my partner come too?"

He grins at her. "The more, the merrier!"

Florence breathes out a short sigh of relief. Despite the panic she'd just gone through, her statement still remains true. This is still the best Hunger Games.

* * *

 **Tada! We're here, we're here! Let me know what you think of Avita and Florence, and if I did them justice with these introductions. Since I got some of the other pre-Games chapters done quickly during my holiday, I should be able to update within the week! Till then, here's a more laid-back QQ!**

 **QQ #15:** Would you rather be a pampered pooch or an all-knowing avian?


	22. Getting Dolled Up

**I got excited since this chapter was done while I had like no internet/needed a breather from the final reaping. So we get like a day-after update ayyyy! In this chapter we'll see Luxor, Cole and Quatra getting ready for the Parade! Let me know what you think, especially since this is the first chapter featuring major interactions!**

 **Also! Before I forget! There's two pieces of news for y'all that I wanted to share - the first is that Ad Mortem now has a blog where you can keep track of tributes and alliances/get a reminder of who is who without having to go through whole chapters. You can find the link to it on my profile! The second is that Ad Mortem has a TVTropes page! I'll see if I can link it on my profile as well, but there's a direct link to it from the blog's menu for the moment!**

* * *

 **21 - Getting Dolled Up**

 **Luxor Aricunai, 17, C-District 8**

"My, what an honour!"

"Look at you! Oh, those eyes blend _perfectly_ with the costume we had in mind!"

"Such a handsome boy—can't we convince the President to let you skip the Games and model Games fashion from now on?"

He smiles at each of his stylists, flattered by their compliments. "Sadly, skipping the Games isn't an option for me," he tells them.

The curtain has yet to be pulled around his room, still giving him a decent view of the a small portion of the tributes. To his immediate left is the tiny boy who will be representing Seven (Cyber? That's his name, right?); to his immediate right is the boy who will represent Nine, silent and unresponsive to his stylists.

In front of him is the empty seat that Chambray will soon be guided to, and either side of her are the girls from Seven and Nine. As he watches out for his District partner, he sees the kids representing Eleven and Twelve being guided to the end of the rows. Even as the girls take their spots with their stylists, he still sees no sign of Chambray.

Luxor frowns as he takes off his fur jacket. Where is she? Shouldn't she be here already, talking with her stylist? Luxor really wanted to catch her before they were pulled apart for their makeovers and propose an alliance with her, but now he wonders if he'll ever get time before they both get on the chariot. First impressions are big in the Games, and he wants to give himself and Chambray a fair chance.

His lace crop top soon follows, and then a towel is slung over his shoulders as he's leaned back further in his chair. A large bowl is below his head, a hose connected to it with a small nozzle at the end.

"Just going to give your hair a rinse so we can style it easier," the head stylist says cheerily. Luxor nods and tugs the towel tighter around his shoulders.

Just as the water starts running and hands move through his hair, he finally spots Chambray. She stays close to her stylist, who walks without a single member of his team in sight, and then she's being ushered behind the curtains of her section as her mentor pokes his head out with a shout.

"I want Galahad, Noctis, and Amelie in my section," he yells, " _pronto_!"

"Amelie, you stay," Luxor's stylist commands. The woman holding onto his clothes nods solemnly, almost looking disheartened as two people from different sections disappear behind the curtains.

"Is something wrong?" Luxor asks. He hopes Chambray's ankle isn't bothering her again.

His stylist shakes her head. She nods for the curtain to be closed, and Amelie wastes no time sliding them along the bars above them. Over the hustle and bustle that follows as Luxor's hair is rinsed thoroughly, he hears Chambray's stylist scream out again.

" _AMELIE, NOW_!"

The way he sounds desperate calling for Amelie—it sets off alarms in Luxor's head. Is Chambray okay? Is something wrong with her? Why is her stylist so stressed over her? Does she not like men touching her? Maybe Luxor should suggest he switch stylists with her, make her a little more comfortable—

"Ugh." The water is turned off and a towel lightly dries his hair. "Go on, Amelie. I'll page Leon and get his team over here."

Amelie thanks the woman and leaves Luxor's clothes on the nearby bench. She vanishes from sight soon enough, and it's just himself and his stylist.

"Can't believe Ulysses is doing this to me _this year_ ," she growls to herself. "Can't use his own team. No, has to take the ones who were promoted last year. What's the _point_ —"

She tugs a little too hard at Luxor's hair. He yelps as a hand flies up to pull hers away.

"Oh, I'm so sorry dear!" She pulls the towel away and cards her fingers through his hair. "No bleeding? I don't want to get that lovely silver hue dirty, goodness. Is a blow drier okay to use from here?"

" _Please_ ," Luxor says through his teeth. He's dealt with temperamental people touching him before, but this stylist actually has him wishing he'd requested a switch sooner. A nice warmth washes over him and soon enough his hair is dried to a point where she can style it easily. Luxor breathes out a sigh of relief as the replacement assistants enter his section, raising the chair and allowing him to finish undressing.

It's a little more embarrassing than he'd expected it to be. Luxor's normally not the most shy person—for crying out loud, he flirts with people at parties more than he'd like to admit—but no one other than Jarlos sees him like this. No one sees him so exposed, not even when they ask him to model underwear or more revealing clothing.

His arms and legs are given a nice scrub, tape measures lined up against every joint and limb on his body. They all compliment him, tell him he's so handsome and that they're so lucky to have an actual model to show off their design. As Luxor's gaze moves over to the table of fabrics and the mannequins waiting to be dressed, he starts to wonder if it's really as great as they say it is. District Eight notoriously winds up with the worst costumes most years, the colours and fabrics clashing in an attempt at showcasing the full meaning of "textiles". Luxor would be more content going out wrapped in a single fabric like a mummy, if the bright colours and horrible pinstripes are anything to go by.

Amelie comes back into the section, Chambray's dress in one hand as the other shakily reaches for Luxor's discarded clothes. She flushes at the sight of him, and barely mumbles out her apology to Fortuna in her embarrassment.

Fortuna practically fumes at the younger woman. She stomps away from Luxor and snatches at Amelie's arm. "What do you _mean_ you're going back to your old section _permanently_?"

"U—Ulysses wants his most trusted staff—"

"I don't care what that damn wannabe _wants_! Don't you dare move an _inch_. I'm going to talk with him."

And then Fortuna is gone. Luxor is left to the mercy of Fortuna's replacement staff, who finish measuring him and finally hand him a pale green gown to cover up with.

Now's his chance to check if everything with Chambray is alright. Amelie's just come from there, so she must know what's wrong.

"Excuse me," Luxor says softly. Amelie startles and drops his jacket to the floor. Before she can scramble to her knees and apologise, he picks it up and hands it back to her with a smile. "Sorry. I should've been more considerate. Could you tell me if something's wrong with Chambray?"

Amelie hesitates for a second, before she turns away from him and tries her hide her blush behind her hands. "There were concerns brought up, but Ulysses settled them. He said we're the ones he trusts to handle it best."

"Concerns?"

"Chambray had a problem she brought up with him before he led her in." Amelie glances at Luxor with an almost guilty expression. "I don't want to say anymore in case I breach any privacy. She's fine."

He nods. "Thank you. She's in good hands."

Fortuna bursts through the curtains again, her face paler than Luxor could ever imagine it being. She doesn't even look down at Amelie as she walks past, her voice sounding detached as she says, "Amelie, you're free to move back to your old section. Thank you for your services."

Not strange at all. Definitely not raising more concerns in Luxor, no siree. Regardless, he follows Fortuna back to the chair and listens intently as the seamstress gets to work on his chariot costume. Fortuna slides a slip of paper over to Leon, a simple instruction to make an Elizabethan collar for Ulysses following.

Luxor's brows rise in shock. He hopes that collar isn't for him. He hopes it isn't for Chambray either.

"Take a seat, Mr. Aricunai," Fortuna calls out. She pats the chair again, this time pointing to the makeup kit on the bench beside it. "Daniella is going to do your makeup while I help Leon with your costume."

He nods. Daniella wastes no time explaining to him what she'll do today, pointing out what areas will be given a touch up and what parts of his tattoo will be concealed. Luxor reaches up and rubs at the sapphire vines that run up his neck and face, having branched out all the way from his right shoulder. He doesn't like having it covered up much—it's a part of him just like his fingers and toes—but Daniella reminds him that it'll only be for a few hours.

She applies concealer and talks him through what she hopes each application will achieve. She wants to sharpen his cheekbones and bring more attention to his silver eyes, and then tells him that she hopes the eyeshadow and eyeliner she's used will further help them _pop_.

When he opens his eyes, a very lovely shade of fuschia covers his eyelids while sharp wings of eyeliner, thick and bold, border his eyes. Luxor blinks and turns his head to either side, hoping to get every angle possible in the mirror for a proper judgement.

After confirming that his tattoo is nowhere to be seen and that his cheekbones really are more defined with what she's done, he remarks, "You're really good at this."

"You're too kind," Daniella laughs. "Don't hold back with the critique. It's still my first year with this, y'know."

"No, it's _great_." Luxor actually smiles as he examines the wings. "I can't do this on my own, and I've been practicing for ages."

"It helps to imagine antique spoons." Daniella caps the eyeliner and sets it back in her makeup kit. Even with that advice, he'd probably still mess it up. That poor imaginary spoon would never know what hit it.

Barely five minutes pass before Leon announces that Luxor's pants are ready. He turns around to see what's on display, but is quick to gawk when the first thing he sees are the big, poofy pantaloons. Fortuna smiles proudly at Leon's work, seemingly oblivious to the disgust that Luxor feels towards the pants. His thighs would never touch once he puts those on—it'll feel like walking around after wetting your pants!

As he puts them on against every urge he has to cry, Luxor makes an oath. If he survives these Games, the _first_ thing he'll do is ban ideas like this for District Eight chariot costumes. Never again will someone suffer these pre-modern monstrosities.

* * *

 **Cole Aish, 12, District 12**

Irene tugs at his hair worse and worse. "Stop crying," she hisses. "It's your own fault for never brushing it."

Cole struggles against the other two stylists holding his arms down, tears and snot covering his face. " _It hurts_!" he screams.

"I'm almost done. God."

"My hair's falling out!" Cole sobs and sobs. He wishes Nirav were here to stop her. "You'll tear my head off!"

With a final, _painful_ tug, she announces that she's finished with him. The arms release him and Cole flies off of the chair. Even with his limp he wastes no time fleeing his stylists. There's too much pain to sit through, worse than the prick to his finger earlier today. He wants to find Nirav and feel safe, away from all these hands tugging and yanking at him.

His stylists call after him as he limps past each curtain. Cole wipes at his face hurriedly, veering to the right and stumbling through a curtain. The footsteps of his stylists run past the section as they call for him, demanding he come back and let Irene finish cleaning him up. Cole just sinks to the ground by the curtain and sobs, his hands pressed firmly against his face.

Everyone around him is asking him to leave, telling him that he won't have time to change into his costume if he hides in here. Cole shakes his head and wipes at his face some more.

"They'll rip my hair out!" he insists. A younger voice approaches him when he says that, a reassuring hand moving up and down his back. "It'll hurt!"

"It's okay…" The younger voice—a girl, younger than the rest but older than him—makes soothing sounds at him. "Breathe in and out, honey. You're okay now."

Cole wipes at his face some more, smearing his gown with tears and snot. Why is he such a messy crier? Now Irene will get even angrier at him.

He looks up at the girl beside him, curious to see who he stumbled upon. He knows that it isn't Florence. Florence sounds so much more high-pitched and rushed when she speaks, definitely not like how some of the parents in the Seam would soothe their children.

She looks strong like Cassia, but much kinder. Dark brown hair like flowing silk, kind blue-green eyes that watch him as she smiles sweetly. She doesn't look angry to have been intruded upon, even as her stylists try to coax her back to her chair.

"Feel better?" she asks him softly. Cole nods, wiping at his nose with his sleeve.

"I—I'm sorry for—" He sniffs harshly. "—for coming in here."

The girl laughs. As the stylists outside pass through again, calling for Cole, she puts a finger to her lips. Her stylists sigh and come over to her, bringing the brush to her hair as she shares a sheepish grin with Cole.

"Don't be sorry." She holds out a hand, waiting for him to take it and give it a shake. "I'm Adrianne. From Four."

Cole actually musters a smile as he takes Adrianne's hand. He hopes the other tributes are nice like her. "Cole," he mutters. "I'm from Twelve."

Adrianne's mouth drops into a perfect O-shape. "No wonder you're so scrawny!" she gasps. "They need to feed their kids better."

He shakes his head. "It doesn't bother me. We get lots of bread and wheat every month at the orphanage."

"Miss Evans, we really need to get you dressed," Adrianne's stylist hisses.

Adrianne waves a hand at him. "Give me a second. I wanna make sure he'll be okay."

"He'll have to tough it out like the rest of them."

She scrunches up her face and sends a glare to the stylist. As though openly defying him, Adrianne turns back to Cole and says, "Want me to walk you back to your chair?"

He shakes his head hurriedly. "Irene will get angry at me."

Adrianne hums. She rises to her feet and offers Cole a hand, pulling him up with her. She ruffles his hair softly and grins, asking him, "What's something you'd really like to eat while you're here?"

"I—" He has to think about that for a second. He's so used to just eating bread and scraps that he's never really had much of a choice with food. Does he even have a favourite? "I don't know…"

"Tell you what?" Adrianne takes his hand and gives it a firm tug. She leads Cole closer to the curtain, pausing in her exit. "If you let Irene dress you up today— _just_ for today!—I'll personally tell your escort how brave you were and that you should have _whatever_ you want for dinner tonight."

Anything he wants? _Anything?_

"Even cake…?"

" _Especially_ cake."

It's tempting. So very tempting. He always hears about how cake is supposed to be treated as a rarity, and that you only eat it after dinner for dessert. The orphanage never had money to buy any from the pastry store in Twelve, but the high tiered desserts and rows of icing always made Cole's stomach cry out a little more than normal.

He nods, determination taking him over. "Okay," he breathes out. "I'm brave. I'll be brave."

"Damn right, you are." And with that Adrianne opens the curtain, leading Cole out and back towards his section.

When Irene lays eyes on him, he jumps straight into a panicked apology. He babbles on and on, all the while clinging tightly to Adrianne's hand, until finally he runs out of breath and just stands there as he wheezes in and out. Irene just stares down for a few seconds more, before finally she shows some sign that Cole isn't _entirely_ in trouble.

"You're not the worst I've worked with," she decides. "Just… Maybe try not to run off again if something hurts. We've all got to put up with a little pain to be pretty."

"Yes, Irene," he mopes. He looks up to Adrianne for reassurance, finding her winking down at him with a grin. With renewed confidence, Cole looks back up at Irene and puffs out his chest. "I'll be brave so I can be pretty."

Irene casts a fleeting look towards Adrianne before she invites Cole back to his chair with a smile. His confidence seems to have made her happier, even after all the crying and screaming Cole's done so far. He's glad; Irene seems like a nice lady, even if she tugs at his hair too much.

Adrianne leaves for her section with a parting, "Atta' boy!" directed at Cole. Cole waves to her until she disappears from sight, and then he's focusing on his breathing as Irene's team sets to work on him again. Legs are waxed and scrubbed, his face is cleaned of all tear stains and dirt, and even the tips of his fingers are free of soot and coal dust. His fingernails have never been so clean, he thinks as Irene towel dries his hair.

They start to cover his hands and feet in a dark dust, leaving a shimmer every time the light hits it. As they travel higher and higher, covering Cole in more dust, he furrows his brows with a frown.

"You just cleaned me," he says to Irene. Irene nods.

"This isn't like the coal you were covered in. It's makeup."

"Like what girls wear?"

Irene shrugs. "More like what everyone in the Capitol wears all the time. It's not as bad as the coal."

"Oh." Cole examines a hand that one stylist finishes dusting. The tips of his fingers are a shiny black, like the polished hunks of coal Hartson's shift would mine each day. It slowly fades once it reaches his wrist, and then it's merely speckled here and there over his chest and shoulders. It's like his hands have been scorched, and the ashes of his fingers are all over his skin.

Irene runs a hand through his hair with a hum. "Have you ever worn a wig, sweetie?"

"No," Cole says, still examining his hands. He watches as black nail polish is applied to the hand still being worked on, further enhancing the scorched appearance it gives off. "Do I need to wear one?"

She hums again and moves over to the work bench. She fishes through her belongings, moving the nude swimming trunks she brought with her to the side. As Cole begins to wonder what they're for, she presents him with a wig the exact same colour as his hair

"Did you ever hear about the stylist Cinna from the Seventy-Fourth Games?" Irene asks as she smooths out the wig. Cole shakes his head.

"I don't know a lot about the Games…"

"That's okay. Cinna used a material that created fake fire when the wind hit it, and it's been pretty popular since with clothing." She waves her arm about, and the sleeve of her tunic seems to almost crackle and spark. "My clothes are made from it. Completely harmless and everything."

Cole nods, but it's hard to move his gaze from the sleeve of Irene's shirt. As soon as she stopped moving it around, the fire had dimmed and gone out. Does it really only light up when the wind hits it?

"I wanted to do a little change this year, and the man working on your partner agreed on the proposal," she goes on. "Let me put the wig on you and I'll show you what I mean."

A lot of hair clips and tucking goes into securing the wig, and Cole feels almost uncomfortable again as he winces with every tug. He wants to yelp out again, but he told Adrianne he'll be brave. He really would like whatever he wants for dinner, so he has to be brave!

By the time they put a mirror in front of him, he can hardly tell the wig is there. It looks so similar to his normal hair and even feels so similarly messy. Irene pats him on the hair with a smile.

"Handsome," she tells him. Cole puffs out his chest again. He _is_ handsome. "Now hold still a moment…"

Irene reaches into her pocket for a small device. It's the size of Cole's hand and has little plastic blades on it, and they start to whir and spin when Irene presses the button on the handle. It spins and spins until a breeze comes from it. The air hits Cole's wig, moving it around and blowing it lightly, and that's when he sees it. _The spark_.

His wig lights up as Irene grins. Atop his head sits a bonfire waiting to happen, and Cole does everything he can to stay calm. He will be brave, he will be brave, _he will be_ —

He shrieks loud and long enough that Irene is forced to beg for Adrianne's help calming him down again.

* * *

 **Quatra X, 14, C-District 5**

"Did you dye your hair recently?"

Quatra nods. "About two hours ago, I think."

Larius groans. "It's still not entirely set. Give me a moment—I've got some conditioner that might help."

She waits patiently for him to dig through his bag. It's oddly quiet in their section, hardly a sound coming from the closed off sections either side of her. Morganite isn't wailing like she expected her to be, and Adrianne is as quiet as she had been during her reaping. It's peaceful—exactly what Quatra needs before she gets through out in the open on that chariot.

"Here it is!" Larius comes back and starts applying the conditioner to her hair, carefully rubbing it in like mousse. As he does this, he makes attempts at small talk. "So. Spy kid."

"Yep." Quatra just keeps her eyes on the curtains. Two more people from his team enter, a tub of water in each of their hands. They must be coming to scrub her hands and feet.

"So what do you _do_ with a job like that?" He starts massaging her scalp, and suddenly this process of dolling up feels like a spa retreat. Quatra wishes this would never end…

"Depends," she sighs. "Families move around and keep an eye on schools. Don't know about anyone else. It's not like we keep in contact with everyone in the field."

"Oh, no. That's understandable." He pulls her hair back out of her face. "I get the whole thing of never associating with each other. I'm just surprised one is in the Games this year."

She hums tiredly. "There's been others in the Games. They were just reaped under their alias."

That piques Larius's interest. "So they don't always stay in the Capitol?"

She really shouldn't be saying all this. But it's like Tres said—she's in the Games as _herself_. She can vent about this if she wants to. Besides, there's probably already all manner of rumours going around about her. It can't hurt to tell at least one person the truth.

"Families move around from District to District," she says after a beat of silence. "I used to live in Four, but I just came back from Ten. Had a friend there."

Larius hums with even more interest. God, it feels like she's an old lady gossiping to her hairdresser now. "What were they like?"

As the conditioner starts to dry and leave her hair silky again, Quatra lets out a small huff of a laugh. "The complete opposite of me," she decides. "Always ready to take the lead and wanting to get to know everyone. She'd always say to me every day, 'Camelia, you're so quiet. I feel like I'll accidentally leave you behind if I look away for too long!' She did at one point."

He laughs along with her. Her hands and feet are cleaned quickly after her story ends, and the silence is filled with small giggles and memories of her time in Ten. Larius is surprisingly comfortable with her, talking about his own friends from college and saying he knew someone just like Quatra—quiet and reserved, apparently unique in his eyes. She doesn't even notice the time fly, at least until the scream from further down the room rings out.

All of the people in Quatra's section, including herself, look in alarm at the curtains. The easygoing mood has been shattered by the shriek, but it soon settles once she hears a woman screaming for the "Four girl" to come to her section.

After the shrieks die down, Larius heaves out a sigh. "One every year."

"One what?"

"Screamer." He moves back to his bench and begins opening his makeup kit. "Every stylist wants to bring an edge to their costumes, but not every tribute likes them. I'll bet someone's trying to bring back the synthetic fire look. God, it's so overdone," he adds with a groan.

Quatra tries to glance back at him, catching sight of a neon green lipstick among his kit. Larius is quick to move her head back to its original place, demanding she stay still while he works on her makeup.

"You don't have anything with an edge in mind, do you?" she asks once the lipstick weighs heavily on her lips. She can almost see the glow it gives off from over her nose. Is this safe?

"Nothing extreme," Larius slowly replies. He's focusing mostly on her face, trying to keep his hands steady as he lightly brushes at her eyelids. "Life tree makeup—organic and glowy, which is perfect for the nuclear look I want to go for."

She swallows a lump in her throat. Nuclear?

"It was either this or a radiation suit, but Hila agreed when I said it'd conceal your faces too much," he goes on. "So you'll just be looking like a mad scientist today. Most of the appeal will be in the chariot itself."

Oh. So she won't actually be _nuclear_ -nuclear. Quatra lets out a relieved breath. She knows the Capitol is a lot different from when Una was her age, but for a whole second there she thought it'd changed more than she'd expected. Worse than she'd expected.

After Larius finishes with the eyeshadow, she asks, "So is 'life tree' the brand you're using?"

He snorts out a laugh. "You really have been gone for a while," he remarks. "After that Eleven kid's Games the Capitol started mass-producing bioluminescent trees. We're actually just in the second phase of testing its applications, so I hope you don't mind being a guinea pig for me today."

Larius takes a handful of her hair and starts frizzing it, running a comb back and forth along the strands to make it puff up and stick out in all directions. Quatra watches the curtains in horror. The knots are going to be hell once she leaves the Parade. Part of her wishes she'd wound up in Six instead.

But, she thinks as the makeup is finished up and her costume is put on easily, it's not too bad. There's no bad reaction, and she really does look like a "mad scientist" like Larius intended. A simple chariot ride might turn out be to alright with something as simple as this, with something as subtle as different kinds of cables acting as a belt for her grease-stained trousers.

Larius lets her out just as she spots Tooru hesitating outside of his own section. He's gripping his coat tightly, holding it over him and biting his lip—almost enough to smear his lipstick. She's not familiar with overly stressed expressions, having never been around many people on the verge of a breakdown; but it's hard for Quatra to deny that Tooru is distressed right now, frozen on the spot and shaking.

She tells Larius to wait as she goes over to Tooru. He looks up at her once before casting his head down again, a smile immediately plastered on his face.

"Y—You look nice," he mutters. He's forcefully deepening his voice. She knows he hasn't been able to take T—it was explained pretty quickly after Adam brought up concerns over Tooru's binder—but he's never made it sound this deep. Not even when he was reaped.

"You look snazzy," she returns, smiling softly. His brows furrow in a way that makes him look helpless, like he wants to disagree. Tooru turns his head away, hiding the makeup on his face.

"I don't feel snazzy," he says. "I feel… Uncomfortable is probably a good word for it."

She looks up and down the hall, checking to see if anyone else is around. As far as she knows, the rest of the tributes are finishing up their allotted dress up time. District Five was lucky to get the quickest costume. Quatra takes his hand and leads him back to her section, where Larius is in the middle of packing up his makeup kit lazily.

When she sits him down on her chair, Quatra pats his shoulder. "You gonna be okay?"

Larius glances over curiously, a tube of concealer hovering just over his kit. Tooru shrugs.

"I don't like people seeing…" He glances down at his body—at his chest, Quatra realises. "I don't like them…"

Quatra waits for him to continue. She leans forward, hoping the action will prompt him on. Tooru's face just scrunches up as he bites his lip again.

"S—Sorry," he whimpers. "This isn't very manly of me, is it?"

Larius drops his concealer loudly onto the table. Both Quatra and Tooru jump, surprised, while Larius struts over and leans against the chair. He flicks at Tooru's short hair and lifts his chin up to face the man.

"What is it exactly that makes you feel unmanly?" Larius asks. There's genuine curiosity in his voice, but his face is expressionless. Quatra is almost afraid Tooru will break down at the interrogation, so close to the Parade.

Tooru looks back and forth, trying to avoid Larius's eyes, but the grip on his chin holds him in place. "It—" Tooru's bruised lip quivers. "It's the m—makeup and the poking… I didn't want to be seen without my binder…"

"Anything else?"

After a second of hesitation, Tooru says, "The fact that I feel self-conscious about it all, too."

Larius lets go of his chin. He nods his head back and forth, his expression thoughtful and patient.

"That's fair," he decides. Tooru sniffs and wipes at his nose with his knuckles. He refuses to let go of the coat he's wrapped tightly around him. "Everyone worries about that stuff. _I_ worry about that stuff."

Tooru nods.

"But who cares?" Larius grins down at him. "Everyone has days where things don't feel good. My brother feels it all the time. He still complains about how weird it is to actually be able to walk around shirtless without being charged with public nudity."

Tooru lets out a small laugh. It brings a smile to Quatra's face, especially after seeing him so glum over himself. Part of her wishes Larius had been his stylist—Tooru probably would've been much more comfortable.

"Who cares what's manly, too?" Larius goes on. He goes back to his kit and packs everything away proper, leaving only the lipstick out. "I'm straight as a ruler and my wife and I love doing each other's makeup. Nothing emasculating about being dolled up. Doing things considered 'girly' doesn't make you any less of a man."

Quatra tries to jump in, hoping to ease Tooru's nerves. She remembers hearing about a tribute who was reaped in the most gorgeous dress, and the moment people tried to assume he was transgender like Tooru he outright demanded they not decide who he was based on how he dressed. Maybe Larius will know…

"Wasn't there this tribute from Eight?" She looks between Tooru and Larius, uncertain of her words. "He, um… He wore this beautiful gown at his interviews and said he loved dresses. I think… I mean he didn't…"

She trails off, receiving blank stares from both males. Quatra can feel her face heating up, her cheeks turning red, but it soon fades when Larius lets out a loud, "Ah!"

When both teens look to him, he smiles widely, "Yeah, he just blew everyone out of the water and reinforced that he wasn't going through a 'phase'. Didn't like traditionally masculine things, but he insisted no one misgender him."

"Yeah…?" Tooru looks at them both curiously. He must not have heard of such a tribute, though to be fair this one was from the earlier years of President Snow's reign.

"Yeah." Larius grins at the teens. "If it's any consolation, you both look pretty damn flashy with that life tree makeup. No one will think, ' _Why are they both wearing makeup when one's a boy?_ '. You know what they'll really think?"

Tooru and Quatra shake their heads.

"They'll think, ' _Those two kids are really brave, announcing their presence to the world as best they can_.' They'll think, ' _I really want to see that brave young man and his amazing Capitol partner win._ '"

They smile. They look at each other bashfully. They smile even wider.

"Now, both of you need to hurry along." Larius shoos at them, waving his hands about. "Get in early to the chariot so you can see what you're working with."

They scurry out of the section, still smiling bashfully as they hurry along the hall. Tooru walks close by Quatra. His grip has loosened on his cloak a little, his palm pressed flat against his chest.

When he looks at her, Quatra sees the same nervous smile that had greeted her after her reaping. The same timid Tooru who managed to quell his dysphoria long enough to introduce himself.

"Do I really look snazzy?" he asks, almost too quiet to hear. He doesn't try to deliberately deepen his voice this time, speaking in a way that doesn't sound unnatural.

Quatra smiles. She takes his other hand and gives it a short swing. "Snazzy and handsome," she decides. "We're definitely going to make a good impression."

* * *

 **And that's the chapter! Next time around we'll get a just-before-the-Parade pov from Bel, followed by two non-tribute povs showcasing the chariot costumes. Until that happens, though, how about we make this QQ one that you can guess at from this chapter's details?**

 **QQ #16:** What do you think each District's costume will be? If you can't think of all of them, what about just the three shown in this chapter?

 **See you all next time!**


	23. The Parade of a Lifetime

**Doot doot! Time for another chapter! We get to see the chariot costumes at last and find out who got stuck with the worst one lmao**

 **Let me know what you think, and as usual the rest of my junk is at the bottom of the chapter!**

* * *

 **22 - The Parade of a Lifetime**

 **Oryza Belfast, 15, District 9**

It's all very overwhelming. All the people who file out two-by-two, heading to their chariots with mixed expressions. Bel's seen three faces of disappointment, all belonging to the tributes before and after Nine's chariot. There's been one look of abject horror from the boy from Twelve, though Bel isn't quite sure why. Is it because he's covered in dust and looks practically nude aside from it?

She looks down at her own costume, her hands holding the straw hat on her head steady. She's not sure why they handed her so much wheat to carry, the sheaf looking almost fake with its plastic shine. Bel frowns down at the wheat and tugs at the straw hat nervously. She doesn't like this. All the poking and prodding, all the eyes on her and all the words she misses. No one's realised she's deaf yet. Her stylist even yelled at her for being rude when she didn't respond every time Bel couldn't see her lips.

At least she hasn't been attacked again, she thinks with a weak shard of hope. Her Capitol partner isn't really mean—though he hasn't said much to her to begin with—and Rye isn't getting into her personal space with that wicked smile of hers. Bel's been given room to breathe today, even if it's not much of an improvement from this morning.

She pulls the straw hat off and inspects it as the rest of the tributes slowly make their ways towards the chariots. Only about half of them are here so far, most of the wait being on the upper District tributes. Bel hasn't seen anyone beyond District Five emerge yet, so she can only assume they'll be off once One through Four arrive.

A hand brushes against her shoulder. Bel squeaks, probably louder than she'd like to have, and almost trips over her own feet trying to back away from the hand. She catches sight of her Capitol partner—Church, Rye said his name was—and places a hand over her heart, steeling herself. It's just Church. She's not going to be stolen away or pounced yet, she's not dead yet.

When she looks back at his face, she can see he's talking to her. Bel only catches the words, "Know each other."

Bel wrings her hands together and sucks in a deep breath. With shaking hands, she tries to tell him to repeat himself.

Church stops her midway. "Shit," she sees him say. "Right. Deaf. Sorry."

Bel waves dismissively. Everyone makes the mistake, she finds. At least he didn't automatically assume she was something else entirely, like District Nine had.

"I was saying we haven't gotten to know each other," he repeats. "I kind of ignored you on the train. Sorry about that."

She shrugs. Then smiles. Maybe she has a nice Capitol partner. Church smiles back at her and adds, "You're Oryza, yeah?"

Bel is quick to shake her head. Before she can remember the movement for a bell, she nods and then shakes her head again. The confused look on Church's face just makes her want to bury her head in the ground. Even _she_ is confusing herself. The sign for a bell fades from memory as she rolls her eyes at herself.

Pointing to her chest, Bel does her best to speak loud and clear for Church. "Bel," she tries.

He stares for a few seconds. An incredulous, "Excuse me?" follows.

" _Bel_ ," she tries again. This time she jabs at her chest with her finger. "Bel."

"Be— Oh!" Church's shoulders shake, probably from laughter. "Bel. A nickname. I follow you now."

She nods, beaming up at him. Here's hoping any other questions he asks won't be so difficult to answer, she thinks.

"Well, I'm Church." He nods curtly at her, a half-smile on his face. "It's a pleasure to meet you, Bel."

One of the remaining pairs enters the corridor. Bel catches sight of armour and capes before her attention is back on Church. She won't get a good view of the two that came out anyway, so she's better off continuing her conversation.

"And you're fifteen?" Church asks. There's a hint of hesitation in his eyes, his chest held steady as though he's holding his breath. Through the occasional red splotches of skin along his neck, Bel can even see his throat constricting.

She nods, and Church appears to let out a heavy, exhausted breath. She taps his hand, hoping to get him to meet her eye again. When he does, she waves her index finger back and forth before clenching her hand upwards into a fist and flipping it downwards with her smallest finger poking out. Just in case, she says with the action, "What's wrong?"

Church's hand moves up to his face, hovering for a fraction of a second over his scar—and then he's quickly pushing back his straw hat and running the fingers through his hair.

"You're the same age as my sister," he says. With an almost disgusted expression, Church adds, "You have so much of your life ahead of you."

She tilts her head at him curiously. Is he angry that she's the same age as his sister? Angry that she's here? Angry about something else? She hopes he doesn't take it out on her. Rye attacking her because of a misunderstanding was bad enough.

Another pair walks out. Well, one of them is carried out, their legs stuck together in a large tail of fabric. Bel and Church gawk for all of two seconds before Church taps her shoulder. She looks back up at him, wondering what's wrong now.

"You know how we have to win as District and Capitol pairs?" he asks. Bel nods. She was briefed on it before they arrived at the Capitol, and her biggest concern had been even _finding_ someone who'd want to work with a girl who wouldn't hear danger coming. It still is at this point, especially with how on edge she is every time she locks eyes with another tribute. Any one of them could be the person who takes her life. Any one of them could be a predator that's chosen her as prey. "I'm thinking… Do you want to stick with me?"

She can't help it. She actually blurts out, "What?"

Church nods. "I'm strong enough for the both of us. And we both have family we want to get back home to, right?"

Pento, still only half-conscious and slung over Gimmick's shoulders, flashes through Bel's mind. Her mother's worried hesitation, her father's anger at the sight of the trio this morning. Gimmick fondly looking over Pento as he rested. As sure as she is that she might not make it home, her heart still aches for that familiarity. For her family and friend.

With great reluctance, Bel nods. Church takes her hand and gives it a reassuring squeeze. It's the way Pento would hold her hand when she was nervous, his own personal way of saying, "I'm here," without making her turn to see it.

"I'll make sure you can go home," he tells her. "And Sarah and I will visit whenever we can. Sound good?"

She continues to stare up at him. Is Sarah his sister? Why does he care so much about Bel getting home? Rye said the Games this year was rigged to make sure Capitolites went home no matter what. Why care about Bel when he's just implied he could win it without her?

Why care about Bel when she'd have nothing to offer him in return?

She chews her lip, her hand going slack in his own, as she considers this. It's a lot to decide on with just one question, especially with the days to come. Church might decide she's not worth leaving the arena with. Church might find someone better. Church might have to say goodbye early if she doesn't make it past that bloodbath.

His head snaps up suddenly, his eyes wide and in surprise. Church lets go of her hand and places her straw hat back on her head. He hands her the sheaf of wheat she'd set aside, smiling apologetically.

"They're telling us to get on the chariots," he tells her. "We'll talk about it later, yeah?"

As Bel follows him to their chariot and grips the edge of it tightly, she wonders if a future discussion will ever actually happen between them. Bel may not know everything about the Games thanks to her parents' need to keep her innocence, but she's not stupid. She knows there's better people here than her, and she knows someone who volunteered like Church will figure that out too.

* * *

 **Jack Evans, District 4**

When the Parade starts, Jack drops all of his paperwork onto his desk and clambers over to the living room. He really should get this work done, sort through his inventory and profits, but Adrianne is much more important. Seeing the girl he raised from a young age make a good impression is important. Seeing his girl okay and with someone she can rely on in the Games _is important_.

He alternates between sitting on the couch and pacing around it as he stares at the screen. He doesn't hear the knock at the door. He doesn't hear Undine announce her presence until the footsteps enter the room.

"Mr. Evans?" she calls out. Jack startles, a hand pressing against his chest to steady his heart. When he looks over his shoulder, at the doorway, he spots two young girls waiting for him to notice them.

"Undine," he breathes, still reeling from the surprise. "Shell. What are you two doing here?"

Shell pushes past Undine, her walking stick poking out in front of her and giving her a good lay of the room. "We wanted to see how Chinook went," Shell says dully. After a short pause, she adds, "I wanted to know if she gets a better costume than I did. Mom doesn't describe the Games to me anymore, so I asked Undine to sneak me over here."

Undine smiles apologetically to Jack. She mouths, _I'm sorry_ , to him and presses her hands together in a pleading gesture.

Jack just huffs out a laugh. "That's fine, girls. Take— Take a seat. I'll get us some snacks and drinks."

The girls converse as he flees for the kitchen. He prepares two plates of fruit, two glasses of water. They accept the snacks gratefully, giving Jack just enough time to sink into his armchair and let out a heavy sigh.

He'd vowed he would keep Adrianne safe after the Elders went missing. He'd promised himself he wouldn't let their legacy suffer the fate they had. But now look at him—he's failed so miserably at it that he has to watch his foster daughter ride a chariot to her death. After this will be four agonising days of waiting—of watching her interview, of finding out whether or not she impresses the Gamemakers. Jack's leg bounces up and down as his anxiety rises. He's not sure he's ready to watch his little girl face a practical warzone.

"They're starting!" Undine gasps. Jack's head whips over to the TV, where he sees the first chariot emerge into the stadium.

The names at the bottom are Altan Knight and Valentina Teagan, representing District One. The two stand about the same height despite the two-year age gap, and the costumes they don are so different from the usual One getups.

"They're in these dark suits of armour," Undine describes. For a moment Jack wonders why she's saying it out loud, but the impressed hum from Shell reminds him that he's not watching this alone today. "The boy has this cape covering one shoulder and fluttering behind him. It's blue—like the deep royal blues they use for Four."

"Ooh," Shell marvels. "What kind of dark are the armour?"

Undine hesitates. Jack wonders if she doesn't know the colour, if she can't find the right word. He looks over the armour, at its gold trimmings and spectacular craftsmanship.

"Midnight blue," he tells Shell. "Midnight blue with gold trimming."

"It sounds so gorgeous…" Shell smiles at the description. Altan and Valentina wave, Valentina acting just a tad more bubbly than her District partner, but all in all they look just like the outstanding tributes One always produces.

"Two's coming next!" Undine beams at the screen. The chariot for Two comes out, the names Cetronia Livius and Wystan Warwick flashing at the bottom of the screen. Wystan and Cetronia look like complete opposites outside of their costumes—one with green hair and red eyes, one with dark skin and a shaved head.

They're dressed in what looks to be a combination of gladiator armour and togas. Allowing Cetronia a chance to show off her build while sticking to the general theme of Two's strength, giving Wystan a chance to display the grace of the Warwick family. Jack chews his lip as he watches them.

"The girl's really stoic," Undine reports to Shell, "and the boy—he's tiny, oh my gosh—looks like one of those smug people. Waving like royalty and everything."

Shell scrunches up her face at the description.

The chariot disappears off-screen as another emerges, District Three showing off its tributes.

The skin-tight suits don't do the District girl—Daphne Petheraph—much justice. Whatever she'd worn to her reaping must've hidden the slight gut that sticks out of her midriff and the overall lack of exercise she gets each day. Jack would guess, as the binary code flashes along her suit in a green light, that Daphne is the kind of person who immerses themselves in their hobby—which doesn't leave much room for building strength or healthy posture.

Her partner, on the other hand, woos the crowd. Nikostratos Farrington's dyed hair compliments his costume, giving him an almost hooded look as the suit crawls up his neck. While Daphne squeaks and twitches to no end, eliciting pity from Undine as she describes her to Shell, Nikostratos holds himself confidently and smiles up at the crowd around him. He's like the marble statues on display at the train station whenever Jack has to make a trip to the Capitol for business—chiseled and awe-inducing, taking everyone's attention away from his partner.

"Chinook!" Undine waves her hands up and down, round and round as Four's chariot emerges. Jack won't deny that he almost jumps out of his seat when he sees her and her partner. He won't deny that a ghost of a smile flits across his face when he sees just how much fun she and her partner look like they're having.

Adrianne Evans and Simoleon Serif. A small note next to Simoleon's name to use neutral pronouns for this event. Jack does his best to understand the note as he takes in the duo's appearance, too distracted by the smile on his foster daughter's face.

"They've dressed her up like a sailor," Undine laughs. "You know those white and blue uniforms with the poofy hats?"

Shell giggles. "Those cartoon ones?"

"Yeah—she's in one of those with her hair up in a bun. Her partner—" Undine pauses for a second. "You'll love this, Shell. They dressed them up as a merperson!"

How else are they supposed to interpret it? Simoleon sits carefully on the edge of the chariot, hands clasped tightly around Adrianne's, as the seaweed decorations and shell hair clips give an underwater feel to them. Their lower body is wrapped tightly in shimmering blue fabric, and every so often they kick their legs out to show off the makeshift tailfins the fabric provides.

"A classic sailor and merfolk angle," Jack mutters, relieved. "She has a chance."

District Five's chariot emerges next, and immediately they're met with a modified chariot design compared to the rest. Instead of the silver chariots most have come out on, Five's is seemingly made entirely from solar panels. No horses pull at the chariot, leaving Jack to wonder just how it's moving so fluidly in the first place.

Tooru Ikeda and Quatra X are the names onscreen, and the two definitely look the part of stereotypical scientists. They're covered in neon green makeup that glows ever so faintly, both teens' hair crumpled and tangled as large glasses pinch their noses. Their white lab coats flutter behind them, revealing untucked dress shirts and grease-stained trousers.

Undine is giggling to herself, almost unable to describe the sight without bursting out into laughter. As Tooru and Quatra nervously stare out at the crowd, dumbfounded by the sheer size of it, the chariot passes out of the camera's view.

"Let's hope Six is better," Shell says with her brows raised. Undine hasn't given the full description, but even Shell can tell how ridiculous the angle for Five was. "They got a good one with mine."

"Don't count your chickens," Jack mutters when he sees Six's chariot emerge. Undine guffaws loudly, cutting off Lola Amos as she commentates on Six's getup.

Finnegan Styx and Morganite Gardierre got the short end of the stick, even compared to Five. The two bump into each other to no end, poking and prodding each other with the jet wings attached to their grey bodysuits. There simply isn't enough room in the chariot for the both of them, and on more than one occasion Morganite almost falls out while Finnegan struggles to keep his balance.

Both look as mortified as Jack thinks they feel. Neither can even focus on the crowd, too busy arguing helplessly with the other to stop pushing them out.

Halfway through the chariots, Jack thinks, and the only one he cares about has been and gone. The only one he cares about did their best and made a great first impression.

 _Maybe she has a chance after all_.

* * *

 **Hartson Flare, District 12**

 _He might not have a chance at this rate_.

Hartson scrunches the papers up even tighter in his hands. Half of the chariots have emerged already, and all but two have gotten the crowd's attention. With Twelve being so close to the end, no one will notice Cole and his partner emerge. No one will see this small boy doing his best despite being so clueless, and it'll tear Hartson apart.

The adoption papers feel heavy even as both hands grasp them. He's yet to put down the final signature, so far only giving all the information he could, but he's hesitant to give it to Mrs. Wyland. He'd made the decision as a spur of the moment one, angered at her refusal to give Cole one more chance. He couldn't sit by and let the kid fade away on the streets. Hartson could work extra shifts to pay for the both of them.

But he's scared. He's scared that if he turns in these papers today, he might lose his son before he gets a chance to call him that. He's scared that Cole might die never knowing someone cared, that someone wanted him in their family. He's scared that the loss will be too much to bear.

So he sits and waits. Hartson waits for Cole's chariot. Hartson waits for Cole's training score. Hartson waits for a sign to hand in the papers. If Cole dies in the Games, he'll claim guardianship and make sure nothing of his is lost to the Seam. If Cole lives and wins, he'll welcome him home with open arms and thank whatever deity was watching over him for giving him a chance.

District Seven emerges from the darkness, the names Phyllis Hamilton and Cyber Tronovsky appearing at the bottom of the screen. Hartson squints up at the television with a frown, trying to figure out what he's seeing onscreen. He can't say for sure, but the duo look to be dressed entirely in flowers—petals, stems, leaves, the whole shebang. Phyllis has her arms crossed in front of her chest as she glares down at her dress, a few petals falling from her skirt as the wind hits them, while Cyber stares blankly out at the crowd and gives them an almost practiced, repetitive wave. Hartson tries to focus on the fact that this boy's eyes glow with every shadow that passes. Hartson tries to focus on the artificial look to his hair. Hartson tries to think about anything other than the fact that this child is the same age as Cole.

He looks down at the papers again. It couldn't hurt to sign it now, could it? Cole's not the only twelve-year-old—Hartson reminds himself of this like it's some kind of consolation, like it's a miracle he might not be the first to go.

Hartson picks up the pen and uncaps it just as District Eight come into the scene. There's a slight chorus of laughter mixed in with rampant screams from the Parade audience.

Lola is gushing about the model in the chariot, Luxor Aricunai, while totally ignoring Chambray Hemingway. Hartson grimaces at the spectacle in front of him, noticing the large frilly collar around the girl's neck before anything else. The jester hat, made of conflicting materials and patterns, jingles with each stilted wave Luxor makes to the crowds. They look like ridiculous jesters, he thinks bitterly. Instead of showcasing the District, their stylists dressed the duo up in embarrassing puffy pantaloons and oversized jester shoes.

Chambray looks extra uncomfortable in all this. Hartson can't blame her.

When Nine comes out, things look a little tamer. Simple farming garments—overalls and straw hats—as both Church and Oryza Belfast hold a sheaf of wheat each. Church's free hand is nowhere to be seen, closer to Oryza than it is the air. When she struggles to hold her balance for just a few seconds, only to have Church correct it, Hartson realises the two are holding hands.

" _I've just received some interesting news about Nine's Capitolite, as well!_ " Lola sounds almost ecstatic as her voice comes out of the speakers with a slight crackle. " _The boy going by just 'Church' is none other than Epsilon Church, the orphan involved in a tragic, tragic car accident last year. With his sister still in hospital, it makes a lot more sense that he's volunteered this year!_ "

Hartson scowls. She invaded his privacy just to get a full name and figure out why he volunteered? Most people have their own reasons for volunteering, and some are too stupid to even wonder why they do it in the first place. You ask a career why they volunteered, and what response would you get? Honour? No, most would hesitate without that default response, stuck with the question haunting them as the Games start.

He clicks his tongue and begins clicking the pen open and shut as it hovers over the forms. He glances up once Ten has been announced, and thankfully it's not as bad as he'd expected it to be. Octavia Faye and Gossamer Wormwood take a different spin on Ten's livestock look, wearing shiny, cleaned feathers as a gown and a bodysuit as more feathers are mixed in with their hair. Octavia seems to have gotten the better design, her dress making her look like someone from a ballet—Hartson can't help but think of the _Swan Lake_ pictures some Peacekeepers would show off after vacations.

Gossamer, on the other hand, looks like a rooster. But at least he's not upset over it. Unlike Octavia, who visibly keeps her distance from him and keeps a stoic expression, Gossamer grins and dazzles the crowd. He looks almost drunk from all the attention, something more to his gaze than just appreciation and confidence. Hartson can feel his stomach drop as he stares at the boy. He hopes Cole doesn't get involved with him. There's too much of a bad vibe coming from him.

He glances back down at the form, realising that Cole will be presented soon. Hartson's heart hammers in his chest now, his hands almost shaking as he hastily scribbles his signature at the bottom of the final sheet of paper.

Done, he thinks. No going back unless he burns it or throws it away. All that's left to do is hand it back to Mrs. Wyland.

Eleven emerges, and for once they look dashing and classy. Jareth Vilna and Avita Clements-McMillan are dressed up as their stylists' interpretation of an avocado and a peach, respectively. Avita's afro has a small, peach cap atop it with a stem emerging from the top, while her dress has a wide balloon skirt that completes the peach look. She grins, looking pleased by the ensemble, while Jareth waves nervously to the crowd. His avocado outfit consists of a neat suit, the jacket and trousers being a dark green while his dress-shirt is brown—the seed of the avocado, Hartson realises.

They actually get a really good reaction, Hartson realises. Unlike the sailor and the knights and the gladiators, Eleven actually holds the most attention. They stand out in a good way, people throwing flowers down at them and cheering at the tops of their lungs.

And finally, Twelve. The first thing Hartson sees is the fire, and he immediately panics. Cole wouldn't handle the fire well, synthetic or not. It might be over before it's even begun. He looks down at the papers again, sweat beading along his brow. He should burn this before he gets hurt, before he loses his new son too early to even call him a son.

But when the chariot emerges, showing Cole Aish and Florence Fontana, he doesn't see the crying, screaming boy he expects to see. No, he sees the usual, coal-coated Cole, with his hair aflame, his fingers clenched tightly around his chariot's handles as he yells at the top of his lungs, " _I am brave!_ "

Hartson chokes out a relieved sob. Despite Florence throwing a fuss beside him, calling for an owl hat to be given back to her as her hair blazes alongside Cole's, Cole stands strong and repeats the statement over and over. Despite how exposed the duo are, dressed in only nude swimsuits and covered in dark dust to represent burning coal, the boy doesn't break down.

"Damn right, you are," Hartson breathes. "You're so, _so_ brave."

Their chariot disappears and the screen goes back to Lola, who ranks the costumes from one to twelve based on audience votes. Hartson stares eagerly at the placements, watching as they're tallied up, and finally a list is presented.

 _1\. Jareth and Avita  
2\. Cetronia and Wystan  
3\. Adrianne and Simoleon  
4\. Chambray and Luxor  
5\. Cole and Florence  
6\. Altan and Valentina_

His heart leaps into his throat. Hartson won't deny the loud whoop he releases when he sees Cole— _his son_ —rank fifth in a costume popularity poll. He's above District One, for crying out loud! _District One_!

 _7\. Tooru and Quatra  
8\. Octavia and Gossamer  
9\. Phyllis and Cyber  
10\. Oryza and Church  
11\. Daphne and Nikostratos  
12\. Finnegan and Morganite_

It's more than he can ask for. All the contenders he'd thought would get more attention than Cole are below him, the audience in love with this small boy announcing his bravery to the world. Hartson steadies himself, suddenly lightheaded from all the excitement coursing through him. He's just so proud—so proud and so certain for once in his life.

He snatches the paperwork off the table. He throws the pen over his shoulder. He storms out of his shack and towards Mrs. Wyland's orphanage.

No more delays. No more hesitation. He's adopting Cole and giving him the family he should've had from birth.

* * *

 **And that's the chapter! Great big thank you to TheEngineeringGames for helping me brainstorm the costumes! So, how about a QQ relating to those costumes, then?**

 **QQ #17:** How would you rank the costumes, favourite to least favourite?

 **I can't wait to see you next chapter, where we check in with Gossamer and Wystan at the meeting with Malvolia! What will it be about, I wonder? :3c**


	24. The Value of Honour

**Heyo, we're at the meeting chapter! We finally see what Malvolia wanted to talk to the C-District kids about, hoo hoo hoo :3c Also (shameless plug) if you're interested in participating in my partial, Ad Aeturnum, which is set 15 years prior to Ad Mortem, there's a form on my profile that you're welcome to take a gander at! :D**

* * *

 **23 - The Value of Honour**

 **Gossamer Wormwood, 17, C-District 10**

He's never been happier to undress before. The ugly chicken suit and the itchy feathers are finally off of him as he hurriedly jumps into the shower. It's a quick clean, the makeup off of his face and the itch slowly fading by the time he's come out.

If Gossamer never sees a chicken again, it'll be _much_ too soon.

Dianne is busy talking to Octavia about scouting allies and what to focus on in training tomorrow. Any other time Gossamer would listen in and use it to his advantage, agree with Dianne and hit Octavia with more of the reverse psychology. But a meeting with Malvolia Nero at the very last minute is bound to be much, much more important.

The elevator opens, the space empty of people to Gossamer's relief. He settles in and presses the button for the tenth floor, chewing his lip as he realises it's a long way down from the twentieth floor. This thing is bound to stop at least once, and he'll have to make small talk with _someone_ from the nine Districts below him. He sincerely hopes it's the kid from Seven. He seems like the type to not speak unless spoken to.

Numbers fade in and out above him: Nineteen, eighteen, seventeen… Each one is a floor housing two tributes and their teams, and with each one that passes every second comes more relief to Gossamer. Fifteen, fourteen, thirteen…

It pauses on the thirteenth floor.

Gossamer groans and tries to plaster his best happy face on as the doors slide open. The teen representing Three stands before him, also looking to have freshly showered and lightly patting at his hair with the towel over his shoulders.

His expression immediately falls. If there's one thing Gossamer can recognise in a person, it's when they're just as pragmatic and scheming as he is. People like Gossamer have a way of holding themselves, a way of meeting someone's eye for the first time. A way of analysing a new face like the way this one does to him.

Gossamer shuffles to the wall and says dully, "Going my way?"

A smirk. Conniving recognises conniving.

"Gossamer, right?" He stands by him and doesn't bother pressing the button to close the doors. So Three wants to stretch this out…

"Yes. Nikostratos?"

"Everyone just calls me Croix." Croix pats at his hair some more. "I'll just cut to the chase right now and save us the chit-chat."

 _Thank fuck_.

"How reliable is your partner?"

Gossamer hums. He toys with the button of the shirt he'd dug out of the tribute closet. Dreadfully plain, a dull grey, but at least it makes his gold locks stand out even more. "Easy to toy with. Too distrusting to even outright ask for assistance. Yours?"

"A bucket of smiles," Croix says with a bitter laugh. "Squeaks all the fucking time. It's annoying."

"Such a shame."

"Can't say she's the worst, though. At least she knows when she's making sounds." Croix rubs at his chin. "You dodged a bullet with Church volunteering for Nine."

"I wouldn't say that for certain," Gossamer sighs. "My name was drawn twice, after all."

The elevator comes to a final stop at the tenth floor. The office right in front of them has everyone else waiting out the front, scoping each other out and seeing who got the better District partner. All eyes fall on the duo as they walk out and join the crowd, and it's not long before they're invited into Malvolia's office.

The room is dark, its only source of light coming from a projector shining against the far wall. Gossamer raises his brow at the setup, at the chairs lining the room, but doesn't make a comment as he takes a seat by the front. He may be six feet tall, but that just means everyone else has to work around it. Gossamer Wormwood never makes allowances for anyone.

Seconds pass, then a full minute, before finally the lady of the hour walks in front of the screen and regards them all with a very serious expression.

"Good evening, tributes," she begins. "I'm sure you're all curious as to why you're gathered here right now."

No one replies. They must all be too curious to bother trying to guess aloud.

"Due to the nature of this Quell, we've allowed some exceptions to the Games. Namely to what the C-District tributes are allowed to do."

A hand rises to Gossamer's right. Church from Nine.

"Are we the only ones who get this exception?" he asks. Malvolia nods. She clicks a small device in her hands, and immediately the projector begins playing shaky footage of Academy training sessions.

"We're all more than aware that some Districts illegally train their tributes," she goes on. "The Capitol loves these tributes too much for us to enforce the law, but that doesn't mean we can't do something about it. The President herself has even agreed on this plan, which I'll sure you'll all use to your advantage prior to the Games launch."

Another click. She steps aside as a contract appears on the wall, a section highlighted in yellow. "We're allowing C-District tributes one opportunity each to sabotage either each other or the District tributes in the leadup to the bloodbath," she says. "The gap between most tributes' abilities are too large to ensure every one of you survives the first day with your own skills, and so we decided this was the best way to make up for that."

Someone from behind bursts out of their seat. Gossamer barely even turns around to see who it is—Wystan Warwick is easy to pick out of a crowd with his voice.

"You're endorsing even more cheating!?"

"Not cheating, Mr. Warwick." She clicks the button again. Picture after picture of past grizzly deaths in the Games flash by. "It's a handicap. If children with only entry-level training wind up like this, how will _you_ fare?"

"I'm different!" Wystan scoffs. "My parents taught me how to defend myself—I'm not some stick of a person from the boonies."

"I have to agree with Wystan, Ms. Nero." Luxor stands up, a very confused expression aimed at the Head Gamemaker. "This isn't fair to the outer District tributes. None of us would use this against each other, since we're the key to winning the Games safely, but this is practically guaranteeing a career win."

There's something interesting about the statement he just made. The way Luxor had pointed out that the Capitol children are the key to winning.

"If you're worried about losing your District partner, Mr. Aricunai, rest assured that you can leave the arena with any District tribute who decides to use you as their escape. The people you represent aren't necessarily the people you'll win with."

No need to stay… Key to winning… Morals be damned, Gossamer's figured out a way to take this entire Quell into his own hands and string everyone along.

"I know some of you may object to this," Malvolia concedes, "but just know the free sabotage is open to anyone up until the launch day. Only _one_ misdemeanour noticed by others will be excused, though. Choose wisely, if you decide to pursue it."

The meeting concludes soon after, and all but Gossamer leaves the room. Croix lingers for a second, almost curious to see what Gossamer is up to, but even he leaves as an announcement for dinner rings out from the speakers above the door. Soon it's just Gossamer and Malvolia, and she seems to know exactly why he's stayed.

"Can I help you, Mr. Wormwood?"

Gossamer raises his brows and looks down his nose at her. He crosses one leg over the other and leans back into his chair. "Just wanted to clarify a few things before I make a demand," he says lightly.

"Go on."

"Us being the key to winning," he starts. "We're valuable to the District tributes, then?"

"Correct."

"And the rules imply that, in some circumstances, C-District tribute deaths may be inevitable?"

"Also correct."

Gossamer smiles. "So I can assume that, if some were to befall such a fate, the others would be even more sought after?"

She smiles back at him, a big, toothy Cheshire grin. Doesn't say a word, but her expression says it all. He's on the right track. _Excellent_.

"Ms. Nero," Gossamer says sweetly, "I'd like to announce my sabotage for review."

* * *

 **Wystan Warwick, 14, C-District 2**

This is all preposterous. Allowing cheating in a Hunger Games? What the hell has the Head Gamemaker stooped to? The _President_ , even?

He hates to say it, but Wystan is _ashamed_ to be involved in something as despicable as this.

All this cheating and sabotaging in an event where everyone is supposed to have a fair shot at making it beyond the bloodbath… It's everything he stands against, and he'll be damned if he allies with anyone who does the same. Wystan will win with his District partner without resorting to cheap tricks, and Head Gamemaker Nero will see just how wrong she was for deciding to allow this _bullshit_.

Wystan storms through the door to Two's floor, immediately hit with the smell of salmon wafting over from the table on the far end of the room. Felix is already digging into his meal, the large bowl of rice and meat in front of him while Edith frets over something on the other side of the table. Two plates are at the opposite end of the table to Felix, one displaying a fillet of salmon and the other has what looks to be lobster salad.

As much as Wystan wishes he could just dig into one of the meals and forget today has happened, he has a duty to Two to uphold.

He slams the door behind him and shouts, "You would not _believe_ what bullshit they're allowing this year!"

Felix looks up with a start, surprised by Wystan's outburst.

"W—What?" he blubbers.

"It's shameful," Wystan goes on. He walks over to the table, and finally he can see why Edith is so concerned with what's on the other side. Cetronia wordlessly continues her push ups like nothing is even happening. "They're letting Capitolites _sabotage_ other tributes without getting in trouble. It's disgraceful and disgusting—they can't seriously expect us to agree to this."

With a final push upwards, Cetronia stands up to her full height and wipes at her brow. "You're annoyingly loud," she deadpans.

"And your point is?" Wystan could scoff at her right now. "We have more pressing matters than what degree of loud I am!"

"We'll deal with it," she says. Wystan gapes at her. "Academy life for outsiders like me features a lot of sabotage aimed their way. Whatever they come up with, it'll be easy to brush off."

Wystan slides into the seat by the salmon. He's still pouting, still displeased by the announcement and what it means for the next three days of training. Any one of them could use their sabotage to throw someone under the bus—they could even use it on the C-District kids instead of the District kids. No one can be trusted, even if they'd objected at the meeting. As far as Wystan knows, Two is the only one that will follow the rules like normal.

"What if—"

" _We'll deal with it_ ," she repeats, harsher this time. She sits down in front of the lobster salad and wastes no time taking a bite of it. Edith at least seems relieved to see her eating. "Trust me."

It's silent then. Painfully silent, like it's been forced after Cetronia's commandeering tone. Wystan catches Edith and Felix's gazes every so often, both of them now nervously picking at their food. Prior to coming to the Capitol, Cetronia must have been a bit more calm with her tone. Wystan's seen her be glib to Edith at the speech for her reaping, but even the escort and mentor look shocked by the change in attitude.

After what feels like an eternity, Cetronia asks him, "What are the rules with these sabotages?"

Wystan furrows his brows at the question. She can't seriously be thinking of using his, can she? "One misdemeanour gets a free pass. It can be used on anyone prior to the bloodbath."

"We'll use ours for defense," she decides. The last of her lobster salad is eaten, her plate shoved away from her. "A Peacekeeper's son and a career are ideal targets for sabotage. We can save ours for the last minute, provided the Gamemakers allow it."

He can feel annoyance rising in his chest. Even if it's to even the playing field for them against everyone else, using this free pass to cheat still feels so… So dirty. So disgraceful. His parents would disown him if they knew he'd done it—hell, _Wystan_ would disown himself for considering it.

But Cetronia's dealt with sabotages before. Cetronia knows how to use it defensively instead of offensively. She must have something in mind that won't make him feel like a failure to his ideals.

"I hate it," Wystan mutters. Cetronia actually looks at him—and she looks almost annoyed. How else is Wystan supposed to take the quirked brow and scrunched up nose? "The sabotage was only given to us, but… But if you have an idea for it, I'll ask if it can be passed on to a District tribute."

"Why?"

"Because it's _wrong_." Wystan drops his knife and fork onto the plate loudly. "This is supposed to be a fair game for everyone to partake in—you die in the bloodbath because you weren't as good as your opponent, not because some schmuck decided to fuck with you without your knowledge. I can't do that—"

"The Hunger Games doesn't care about what you can and can't do," Cetronia growls. "Do you think I had it fair, living so far from what everyone else—from what this _pig_ —" She gestures to Felix wildly— "got to grow up with on a silver platter? All that matters is giving it your all, and if the extent of your abilities includes a chance to throw someone into the volcano, you _do it_."

Wystan jumps out of his seat with a snarl. "It's dishonourable!"

Cetronia follows suit, towering over him. "No one gives a damn what's honourable or not!" she shouts. "It's do or die, and I'm _not_ letting you ruin this for me! There's eleven more kids with the same value as you out there, and I won't hesitate to get rid of you come the bloodbath if you don't shape your shit up!"

The silence is back, but this time it's stunned. Incredulous. Horrified. Wystan stares back up at Cetronia. He feels almost uncertain now, doubt rising in his chest as the seconds tick by. He's been nothing but respectful to Cetronia—he'll admit that he can be a prick, even to her, but he's toned it down to her especially—and now she's showing just how much he's worth to her. Cetronia doesn't care about winning with an assigned partner she gets to know. Cetronia's sticking to the only words that ever made it out in Two's broadcast: She'll still kill eleven others if need be.

And Wystan is a solid "maybe" in that group of eleven.

"Am I understood, Wystan?" she says finally. Neither Edith or Felix makes any comment, still reeling from the shock of her statement. They'll be of no help to Wystan if he argues.

As much as he respects her power, there's others competing in this Quell that are just as skilled as Cetronia. She's not the only force he can rally behind—especially when she'd already pointed out someone with ideals similar to Wystan's.

So he works his jaw and lifts his chin, staring down his nose at her with a bored expression. "Yes," he says evenly. "Loud and clear, Cetronia."

He'll win without her. He'll win without the sabotage. He'll make her regret mocking his sense of honour.

* * *

 **And that's the chapter. I wonder what kinds of trouble this will bring to the Games and who will use their sabotage for what huehuehuehue~**

 **QQ #18:** If you had a sabotage in the Games, what would you use it for? (Score manipulation, choosing who launches where, etc.)

 **I'll see you all next chapter, where we check in with Val, Florence and Cyber for day one of training!**


	25. Baby Steps

**Day one! Let's see what goes down today, eh? We're getting just a li'l closer to the arena launch, so I'm hype as heck to see what you guys think of it!**

* * *

 **24 - Baby Steps**

 **Valentina Teagan, 16, C-District 1**

"Where should we start?"

Knight hums. "We'll save the swords for tomorrow," he decides. Everyone else around them is already heading to stations, taking up most of the handheld weaponry and snares. "You said you wanted to try out ranged stuff, right?"

Valentina nods. At the very least she hopes she can use a ranged weapon—handling something heavy like a mace would put her at a disadvantage, and she'd like to be useful to Knight without getting in his way by accident.

After the meeting yesterday, Valentina's been a bit nervous. Knowing that Knight could easily pick someone else to win with and that _anyone_ among the C-District tributes could sabotage her or Knight is a tad more difficult to ignore compared to everything else. The fact that Gossamer had stayed afterward, too… Well, she's sure he just wanted to get more details without intending on using the sabotage.

They're the only ones at the station aside from the boy representing Two, who stands by himself while most others are still with their District partners. Val watches him for a moment as he pulls a bow from the stand and tests the string, getting a feel for the weight of it.

"Have you ever used one before?"

Valentina jumps. She turns back to Knight and shakes her head. "No, but I have pretty decent hand-eye coordination," she says. "And if I can't use the bow then the crossbows are there as well."

A snort. Not from Knight, but from the boy representing Two. He's standing all the way on the other side of the lineup, already preparing to fire an arrow at the target. He doesn't look at him, drawing back the string and holding it for a mere second before letting it go.

The arrow hits the second innermost ring.

"A crossbow is more difficult to draw than a bow," he drawls. "Time would be your enemy with one."

Knight clicks his tongue while Val smiles over at him. She can't help wondering why Cetronia isn't with him, why he's talking to them when One and Two don't seem to want to ally. But more than anything, she wants to know how he learned to shoot so well.

Wystan nocks another arrow as Valentina leads Knight closer to his section. He holds it steady as he calculates his aim, releasing the bowstring and aiming just an inch closer to the target's centre.

"You're really good at this," Valentina marvels.

"It wouldn't do for the son of well-known Peacekeepers to be useless in a fight." He nods to her bow, the implication to use in it the gesture. "Watch my movements and copy them."

She follows his stance, the way he holds his shoulders, but the length of time he holds the bowstring back makes her elbows shake and her wrists ache. She'd never realised how much strength would go into just preparing to fire an arrow and taking aim.

As they hold their positions for a moment, Knight moves to Wystan's side and leans against the wall. He looks suspicious of the boy, scrutinising him as the two Capitolites continue to hold their stances.

"Release," Wystan commands. Val's fingers snap off of the string, the bow flying out and just barely landing on the target's lower half. Wystan's, on the other hand, lands towards the outer ring. "Your grip slackened after holding it for so long. The trick is to hold it back as far as you can without snapping the string."

Valentina shakes her arm as the ache slowly subsides. It's interesting learning about all this, especially from someone who's both smaller and younger than her. The rude Wystan from yesterday who'd flipped her off with a sneer has suddenly turned into a helpful source of information overnight, and Valentina's not the only one to notice that.

As Knight grabs a crossbow and hands it to her, he says, "You'll need to work on your upper arm strength, then. Just focus on pulling back the string after pulling the trigger."

"That should suffice if she saves the bow for day three," Wystan jumps in. Knight grunts, though he doesn't argue.

"So why are you lending us a hand, Warwick?" The brunette boy leans back against the wall again. He crosses his arms in front of his chest, his eyes on Val as she sets to work pulling back the string as far as she can. "It's pretty suspicious. Livius didn't send you to suss us out, did she?"

The string stays in place. Valentina heaves out a relieved breath.

"This was my own plan to begin with," Wystan replies smoothly. He nocks another arrow, this one landing where his first had. "After last night, I thought it best to see if there were… better alternatives to Cetronia."

Valentina pulls the trigger. The string shoots out with a loud click, and she almost drops it with a squeak. She smiles over at Knight, and he gives her a lazy thumbs up before looking back to Wystan. Valentina feels a little giddy over the conversation—Wystan's basically admitted that he's considering allying with them, right? It won't just be the two of them in the career group!

"Are you an honourable man, Altan?" Wystan grunts as he pulls back the string again.

"Call me Knight."

"Call him Knight."

She giggles at the unison they spoke in, and at the momentary embarrassment that flashes over Knight's face. She seems to be doing that a lot since meeting him—catching him off guard. At this point Val's tempted to keep a count of how much more she can spring on him.

He clears his throat. "I find cheating and cantrips deplorable, if that's what you mean."

A ghost of a smile appears across Wystan's face.

"This is referring to the meeting last night, I assume?" Knight walks over to Valentina, picking up her discarded bow and observing her next attempt at pulling back the string of the crossbow. It clicks in place with maximum effort, and she begins to wonder if she'll have any feeling left in her arm to use the bow and arrows on the third day. How did Wystan get so good at this so young? "Val told me you're being granted sabotages. She said you were very against it at the meeting."

"I still am," Wystan agrees. "I grew up fighting without resorting to tricks and cheap tactics. I idolise the militants who use their terrain to their advantage rather than by striking someone while they're down. It's not a proper fight if you're pulling all the strings and tricking them into thinking they have a chance."

"That's…" Val stares at him with wide eyes. Compared to the abridged version of his reasoning last night, this sounds like a pretty good reason _not_ to use the sabotage. She can't help but wonder if he'd still want to ally with them after the chat they'd had last night. Knight may be honourable, but he's not on Wystan's level of staunch chivalry. "That's really noble."

Wystan smiles again, this time deigning to side eye her. "Thank you. Cetronia didn't see it the same way, sadly."

And then Knight is smiling. A scheming smile, the look in his eye screaming that he has a plan. Valentina looks back at him, pulling the trigger of the crossbow and wincing at the loud click it lets out.

"If you're willing, Wystan," Knight says, "we'd be happy to ally with you. You're career material, for sure."

Another arrow fired. This one joins his second one in the middle circle. "Sure," he says. "I'll keep an eye open for anyone else, if you want. It's pretty easy to sift through the skill levels here."

"Actually," Knight goes on, "I was hoping you'd keep helping Val with her archery. We were going to practice swordsmanship tomorrow, but if she needs to keep at it with the bows and crossbows then it might be best to keep someone experienced with her. She's a quick study."

"If that's the case…" Wystan turns and puts his bow back on the stand. The arrows in his target are swiftly collected by a trainer waiting along the sidelines. "I'll brush up my own swordsmanship today so she gets all my focus. Sound good?"

He's looking at her when he says this, and Val almost forgets to reply. She'd honestly even forgotten she's involved in this conversation.

"Sounds great!" She grins at him.

When Wystan leaves them, moving on to the swords station and joining the two representing Nine there, Knight leans back against Val's lane and heaves a sigh.

"I'm gathering we won't say anything about what we came up with?" she asks quietly. Knight nods, a soft hum joining the movement.

"The way we're using your pass won't be noticeable. They never label sponsor gifts anyway. While he's helping you out and I scout other allies, I'll keep an eye on who we can hijack. As much as I hate to admit it, Atticus is right about the importance of sponsors."

Pull back. Release. The maddening click fills the pause in their conversation. "Well, it's not like he asked if we used ours," she agrees. "As long as he assumes you're too honourable to rely on it, we should be good."

* * *

 **Florence Fontana, 15, C-District 12**

 _Barn owl. Screech owl. Horned owl._ The images flash across the screen, but Florence is only focusing on the owls. Even as Cole tugs at her sleeve and mumbles, "What about the other animals?"

The screen flashes with the same score as before—three correct, twenty unanswered—and Florence smiles proudly.

"I can look for canaries next time, if you want?" she says. Cole smiles and nods.

"Then you get four right," he cheers.

It's a plan, then! Florence begins to investigate canaries in the trivia game, boosting her final score by one and bringing a giant grin to Cole's face. She thinks he's happy—he wouldn't make that face if he wasn't right? They restart the game again and sort through their options, but Cole is quick to stop her with a tug on her sleeve.

Florence looks down at him as the screen flashes red, telling her she's run out of time to match any remaining animal cards. "What?" she says, eyes wide.

Cole points over to one area that dips into the floor, a small gate surrounding the water. "I saw that nice person I told you about," he gasps. "Adrianne."

She beams. After meeting that boy from Six yesterday, Florence has been—what was the feeling called?—excited to see if anyone else is sociable like him. Not everyone here tries to knock her down and take her hat like last time, and she thinks Adrianne might be just as nice as the Six boy if she helped Cole be brave yesterday.

"I wanna see!" Florence squeals. She takes Cole's hand and drags him along (remembering his limp at the last minute) as they approach the pool. Only three people are in the water at the moment, dressed in swimming gear rather than the same training suits everyone else dons. Florence tugs at the sleeve of her shirt and wonders if they're not waterproof or suited for swimming.

There's the really quiet Capitolite representing Four in there, staying by the shallow end and doggie paddling. They look nervous—that's what the uncertain expression on their face is, right?—but they seem to be doing well enough. Deeper in the pool is another Capitol tribute, her pink hair splayed around her head as she steadies her breathing. Florence thinks she remembers her name, but doesn't get the chance to ponder as that pale face dips under the water with a huge intake of breath.

And then there's the girl from Four, the nice career Cole met. She's freestyling up and down the pool, faster than Florence has ever seen anyone swim before, before she stops at the fifty metre mark and pushes her hair out of her face. "You're doing great, Sim!" she calls across the pool to her District partner. Sim smiles, no longer looking nervous, while Adrianne turns her attention to the gate.

"Hey, Cole!" She grins at the duo, pulling her arms up over the edge and leaning against it casually. Adrianne's gaze falls on Florence, and her smile grows wider. "Nice hat. It's cute."

Florence likes this girl.

"So what're you two up to?" Adrianne asks. "Interested in trying the pool?"

"I can't swim," Cole mumbles. Florence pats his shoulder once, attempting to be reassuring. This is what people do when they want to tell someone it's okay, right? It must be, because he smiles up at Florence and seems to perk up. "Is it difficult?"

Adrianne shakes her head. "Nah. As long as you stay in the shallow end and know how to doggie paddle, you won't drown. And if you do," she adds with a thumbs up, "I'm a pro at CPR!"

That's all it takes to convince Cole to give it a try. Florence helps him pick a swimming uniform that looks like it'll fit, and when he asks if she'll swim too she quickly grabs for her hat. She doesn't want to get it wet or lose it—it was hard enough trying to convince Buttercup to let her take it to training today, too. Cole picks up on this quicker than she'd thought he would, and he promises to do his best for the both of them.

"If there's water in the arena," he declares, "I'll handle the swimming for us."

So Florence spends her time looking for something else to do. Someone else already took the memory station after she and Cole said hello to Adrianne, setting it to flowers rather than animals. Florence pouts. She thinks this is the duo representing Nine, where there's probably tons of flowers like what they're marking off. She hopes they'll leave it soon enough.

But at least she's not left with absolutely _nothing_ to do. A quick scan of the large training centre reminds Florence just how many other people there are here—and just _who_ is here.

She beelines for the trap making station, where three people occupy the area and make their own traps. She doesn't really recognise the girl there, wondering if she's a District partner for someone she hasn't talked to yet, but she recognises the boy from Six and Luxor. Florence's heart flutters as she enters the area and stares at them, grinning from ear to ear.

The boy from Six notices her first, and he's all smiles like before. "Hey, it's Twelve!" he greets. Luxor turns to look over his shoulder just as the girl finishes up her trap, setting it off and capturing a dummy of a rabbit.

"I'm a huge fan of yours," Florence wheezes at Luxor. He laughs, too soft to be a hearty laugh, and averts his gaze back to his rope trap. It's half-finished, barely looking as good as the girl's.

"Quite a few people here seem to be," he mutters with a smile. The boy from Six laughs, and this one sounds more amused than Luxor's. She wonders what each laugh means.

"You're the third one today to greet him like that," Six chuckles. "I was number two."

"You like Luxor, too?" Florence gasps up at him. He nods. "They show his stuff in the Districts?"

"Not all the time, but I tune into Capitol channels more often than most." He holds out a hand, smiling that same smile he'd given her yesterday. "I'm Finn. Don't think I said it when you and your partner walked with me."

"Florence," she says with a big smile. She shakes his hand.

"Cham—"

The blonde girl stands up amidst the introductions and begins walking to another station as fast as she can. Luxor watches with an odd expression—pained? Concerned?—as he abandons his trap. The girl—Cham—ignores him and just makes her way over to the edible insects station.

Luxor sighs. It's a heavy sigh—one Florence knows is associated with dismay. Her dad would make those sighs a lot, after all. "Damn it," Luxor mutters.

"She okay?" Finn asks. He leans back onto the heels of his feet, watching Cham with furrowed brows.

"I think she's upset with me. After the meeting last night, she's just been distant."

"But you didn't like the meeting," Florence points out. "You said it wasn't fair to outer District tributes."

"What wasn't fair?" Finn's eyebrows shoot to his hairline.

"The sabotages." She points to Luxor and nods hurriedly. "Luxor didn't like it. Cham shouldn't be upset at him, right?"

Her question goes ignored, the focus of the conversation shifting to the topic of the meeting. Finn stares at the two Capitolites with wide eyes, and she assumes he's shocked at the information. Did his partner not say anything?

Finn gasps, "They're letting you sabotage people? District tributes?"

"Whoever we want," Luxor sighs. "But only once. It's basically a free pass to cheat. District kids can't use them, either."

Finn starts to go pale. Florence watches him, a bad feeling welling up in her chest, as he looks back over to Cham and gulps almost audibly. He casts the Capitolites a glance each, fleeting and avoidant, before he nods and sucks in a deep breath.

"I'll go see if she'd okay. She might need a District ally to confide in for this."

And with that, Finn rushes to the edible insect station.

Florence just stares after him, a new feeling emerging. It's kind of dazing and confusing, like she can't wrap her head entirely around the situation. Was Finn surprised by the sabotage news? Didn't his partner tell him about it last night?

"I'm guessing he didn't find out about it," Luxor sighs. He stands up and abandons his trap, rubbing the back of his neck with a frown.

"Is he…" Florence scrunches up her face. "Is he upset with us?"

"I don't think so." They follow Finn's path and watch him as he stands close to Cham. He smiles at her—almost sadly, Florence notes—and begins chatting with her as they begin sorting through insects. "I'd probably try get details from the other Capitol kids if it was the District tributes being granted this advantage."

It doesn't make a lot of sense to her, but she can piece together parts of it herself. Finn wasn't told about the sabotage by his partner, so he's trusting someone in the same situation as him who knows to tell him, right? All this secrecy and uneasy feelings in her stomach are making Florence nervous. Just watching the Games at home always gave her an off feeling—like something wasn't right—but actually being in them increases it tenfold. She can see everyone interacting, learning about them. She even knows some of them by name and has opinions on them.

But, she reminds herself when she looks back at Luxor, it's not something she needs to dwell on right now. How many other chances will she have to talk to _the_ Luxor Aricunai before the arena launch?

Florence smiles up at him. "Tristram Fennec did an _amazing_ job on your tattoos," she begins.

* * *

 **Cyber Tronovsky, 12, C-District 7**

"Is it alright to sit with you?"

The girl who asks him this is at least half a foot taller than him, braces peeking out from behind her lips as she smiles. Cyber runs through the names of each tribute in his mind before finally settling on the most likely result: Daphne Petharaph, District Three. Cyber looks down at the food on her tray and nods once. There's plenty of seats around him that are free—if she wants to sit at the same table because nowhere else is free, why bother asking?

"Cyber, right?" she asks as she settles into her seat. Cyber nods. He scoops up some of the food on his tray and munches on it idly. Daphne just watches him in awe. "You're that cyborg, yeah?"

"I am."

"Wow…" Her faces lights up as she looks him up and down. Cyber remembers being the same when he was first put into the body—remembers the glee he'd felt about being closer to technology and being given a second chance at life. He wonders how it would compare to Daphne's interest.

Given that they're both from the same District, he can assume she feels the same way he had when he was eight.

"So you can eat?"

"Among other things." He wonders where her Capitolite partner is. Most have stuck together (not that he can talk) and eat together even now, though Nikostratos is nowhere to be seen. He knows where Ham is—she's sort of eating in silence with the girl from Ten. They've sort of designated themselves as the loners today, everyone else at least looking as though they're talking to the people at their tables.

If he looks just a little beyond their own table, he can see Nikostratos and Gossamer sitting awfully close to each other. He glances shortly back at Daphne before asking, "Why isn't your partner with you?"

She squeaks ever so softly. Is it her Tourettes, or just a small hiccup of surprise?

"What about yours?" she deflects.

"She dislikes people from Three." Cyber scoops up some more food and takes a bite. "Even if they don't represent or live in Three."

A look passes over Daphne's face. Uncertainty and concern mixed together in one. "Why doesn't she like people from Three?"

"One of their victors—Cynthia Quanta—killed her brother," Cyber says automatically. The information flashes through his mind, spewing out before he can stop himself. "Cynthia Quanta used a tactic similar to one of Seven's own victors and allowed Fern Hamilton to die slowly over the course of fifteen minutes."

Daphne's pale all through the explanation. Is she bothered by the information? Maybe she's one of the more squeamish tributes.

"I should probably also warn you that this means you already have a target on you," he adds. "Ham already made it clear after the Parade to me."

"N—" She cuts herself off with a squeak. "Noted."

What most would call an awkward silence settles over them after that. Daphne avoids Cyber's gaze whenever he looks back up at her after eating, which leaves Cyber to lot them in with the loners for today. That leaves him aware of four people so far without any clear alliances budding.

So he begins to analyse. He begins to observe. His gaze flickers to the group closest to them—the table with Altan Knight, Valentina Teagan, and Wystan Warwick. Cyber watches as they all hide their mouths with their hands, glancing left and right at the other tributes. Altan seems to be nodding and shaking his head at some points while Wystan points out other tributes. If their mouths weren't covered, Cyber might be able to read their lips…

It's a smart move of them. There's likely going to be two career alliances this year, and if someone who can read lips finds out their plans then they'd be sitting ducks in the bloodbath. Cyber thinks they have a good chance of making an impact in the Games.

Closest to their table, almost isolating themselves from everyone else but the two kids from Three, sits Gossamer and Nikostratos. Cyber must not have noticed them with everyone else being on the other side of the lunch area. He'll have to broaden his sights to make sure that doesn't get him killed later on. Gossamer munches on his food with a refined demeanour, listening with the occasional nod as Nikostratos makes observations. Cyber blinks at them.

"Nikostratos is getting along well with Gossamer," he tells Daphne. Daphne's shoulder jerks, though Cyber wonders if it was more the entire left side of her body than just her shoulder. "They'll ally together."

"What makes you say that?" she whispers. Cyber looks back down at his food.

"They arrived together for our meeting, so they were able to get a good feel for the other in their first impressions," he reports. "Neither of them has used the training sections yet. They walked laps around the area and paused every time their paths met. Now they report what they've learned so far and probably agree to work together—they're both keys to winning, after all. Why bother with making each other enemies?"

Daphne glances over her shoulder at them. As she stares, an uncertain expression on her face, Cyber catches Nikostratos and Gossamer waving sweetly in their direction. They're taking amusement in the duo. It's hard to deny when he figures out that Gossamer is telling Nikostratos, "The careers will go for her first. Not our problem," from the movements of his lips.

He looks back over at Daphne. She's still preoccupied by the sight, awkwardly waving back and squeaking softly. Cyber quickly looks back over to Ham and Octavia; both girls are now acknowledging each other, though the guarded expressions and stiff postures show a pair of very, _very_ tall walls of distrust to overcome.

He's beginning to see the point in the distrust. In Ham keeping everyone from Three on her hit list. She's using previous, second-hand experience to fuel her opinions and motivations. Opinions Cyber is unlucky enough to be unable to form.

But Daphne can.

"Ham's not entirely wrong in resenting us," he says. Daphne jumps, whirling back around in her seat to face him.

"She's not?"

"Everyone does what they have to in order to survive. Some consider what they have to do to be what they enjoy to do." Cyber finishes off the last of his food. After this, training will be over for the day. He wonders if he can try convince Ham to target Nikostratos instead of Daphne later. "Your mentor is someone who reinforced how dangerous a bright mind can be. It wasn't just Fern Hamilton she killed—she had to betray her District partner as well."

Daphne's food is halfway eaten, though her portion had been bigger than his. Cyber never ate much anyway—if anything, eating just serves to keep his actual organs from wasting away. She fixes her glasses, looking down at the table as though to hide her expression. Cyber doesn't bother to correct her over it; correcting Maddie in the past had resulted in sulking, which won't be helpful to Daphne now.

So he offers some actual help. Help he still needs to consider the pros and cons of before making a full decision.

"Adrianne from Four is making sure outer District kids have a chance in an alliance," he tells her. Daphne's whole expression lights up. Hope? Cyber needs to look into it later. "She approached me earlier and offered, and she's got the boy from Twelve on her side as well. You'll have better odds with her than Nikostratos," he adds for good measure.

And it's true. Cyber runs through what he knows about each person so far, what last night showed him about the Capitol tributes, and each scenario looks better without Nikostratos—or rather Gossamer, who seems attached to his hip—involved. Adrianne seems like the best choice for Daphne to get out of the bloodbath. As long as she balances the weaker kids with stronger ones, smarter ones, their ragtag alliance might outlast whatever career alliance forms.

Daphne seems to come to this conclusion as well. Hand thoughtfully stroking her chin, she nods and smiles toothily at Cyber. He stares at her braces. Will the Gamemakers allow braces into the Games? He isn't sure he's ever seen any tributes with them before. Then again, he is only twelve.

"I really appreciate it, Cyber," she says softly. Daphne finishes off her meal and collects Cyber's tray alongside her own. She passes his by and pauses at his chair, still smiling at him. "Let me help you find something you're good at. I noticed you were kind of lingering near some stations—maybe your body will come in handy with the more physical stuff."

"It might," Cyber agrees. "We could test the skin and framing. I only know I'm sturdier and heavier than most."

Daphne nods with a grin. It's been a while since he's had someone smile this long at him without it being inherently malicious. Maddie always looks a little sullen when she smiles at him, and the kids back in the Capitol are very sadistic about it. Daphne's expression comes off as familiar—a good familiar, something from his life in Three. A memory he knows he used to hold dear, that was from a good time in his life. When he compares his sister's smile to Daphne's, he can see the expression he's supposed to make in return.

He just doesn't know how to do it on his own.

"I hope you get a good rest tonight—" Daphne cuts herself off, eyes suddenly blown wide. "Can you sleep?"

Cyber brings his index fingers up to the corners of his mouth and pushes lightly against the skin. His cheeks rise, his lips slowly forming a forced smile. With the usual blankness to his tone and eyes, Cyber replies, "Among other things."

* * *

 **And that's the chapter done! Before I deal out a QQ, I'll be reminding those of you interested that submissions are still open for Ad Aeturnum! That's about the only other news I had, so here's the QQ!**

 **QQ #19:** Which interactions were your favourites?

 **I'll see you all next time, where we check in with Tooru, Cetronia and Ham!**


	26. Game Plan

**Welcome to training day two! It took a while to figure out a name for this chapter since Tooru's section was a little different from Cetronia's and Ham's, but I think this one works XD I hope you all enjoy, and as usual the QQ will be at the bottom of the chapter!**

* * *

 **25 - Game Plan**

 **Tooru Ikeda, 14, District 5**

"I guess we got in earlier than the others," Tooru says. He looks around the training room, confirming his statement with a second check. "Should we just take whichever we want?"

"Might as well."

Quatra steps into the room and checks the stations. She leans in the direction of the chemistry station, but hesitates once she remembers Tooru is with her.

"Did you want to partner up on a few stations and exchange tips?" she asks slowly. Tooru looks down at his feet, secretly relieved that Quatra isn't going to leave him on his own yet. Ever since the Tribute Parade she's been by his side and reassuring him every step of the way. They'd even managed to sneak a mattress into his room to bunk together on the first night—which makes for hilarious stories over breakfast regarding who talked in their sleep.

He's glad she's still sticking by him. Though he wonders if she'll stay with him after the scores come out. They aren't "officially" allying—kind of like a few of the girls he talked to yesterday—and he can't deny that she'd fit in best with the careers. But now it's just a matter of time before she finds the group she wants to be with, and Tooru isn't sure he'll be able to handle that rejection when the time comes.

"Can we try the swords?" he says.

Quatra obliges him, to his relief, and the better part of an early morning is spent looking over swords to determine which would be a better fit for Tooru and Quatra. The trainer tries to hurry them through it all—"You won't get the luxury of choice in the arena, kids."—before they finally settle on a couple.

The one Quatra chooses it much shorter than the one Tooru does, being closer to a dagger than a sword overall. She practices her stances, chewing her lip as she concentrates; Tooru tries to do the same, slowly getting a feel for the weapon in his hands.

Swords are a lot heavier than he imagined. Tooru grunts as he gives the sword an experimental swing, listening to the air whistle around the blade. Never in his life had he imagined that he would be holding one of these, or that he'd be using them on someone; it feels almost surreal. It definitely feels horrifying.

After Quatra finishes talking to the trainer, most likely negotiating lessons with the new dummies, she turns to Tooru and does her best to smile reassuringly. Tooru smiles back—weakly, but its still a smile.

"Ready to give it a try?" she asks.

He nods. It's better to get it over with sooner rather than later.

The new dummies aren't like the regular ones. Those ones were a dull grey and had no features, made entirely of thick plastic. These ones… Well, Tooru certainly thinks of the Capitol boy named Cyber when he sees these new dummies. Almost human, but not quite there. Still disturbingly close.

"Gonna be okay?"

He looks over at Quatra, seeing her hesitate with her own dummy as she watches him with concern. Tooru inhales deeply, doing his best to steel himself. It's just a dummy, he tells himself over and over. Just a dummy.

"Just needed a second," he tells her. Quatra nods, understanding, and turns her attention back to her dummy. He really, really hopes Quatra sticks by him even if he doesn't do well here today.

Tooru looks back at his own. He thinks back to the nights spent pulling useful advice from Adam, mixed among his ramblings about his own Games. To the tip best suited for holding a sword; to the caution about vital areas on a person. Tooru swallows the lump in his throat and holds his breath.

He lifts the sword above his head, watching the dummy's neck, and swings down hard.

Blood sprays out onto him. Some of it lands on his uniform, but the majority of it lands on his face. Tooru can't even stop himself from shrieking at the reaction— _the robot boy, the robot boy, he killed the robot boy_ —and drops the sword like it's on fire. The dummy drops after it—limp, dead, _he killed the robot boy_ —and Tooru is left standing in horror over his victim.

He can't tell if he's crying or not, but his throat is raw as he keeps screaming and trying to call for help. Hands are all over him— _get them off, get them off_ —as muffled voices fill his ears, drowning out his screams.

Before Tooru blacks out entirely, he hears himself shriek above everyone else, " _I can't do this_."

He can't say for sure how long he'd blacked out for, but when he comes to his senses again he's sitting in a chair in a white room. It's smaller than the training centre's floor, basically no one in the room besides himself.

Tooru's chest feels like it's collapsing in on itself as he tries to get up from the chair. His limbs feel impossibly heavy, his throat dry and head pounding. He's felt like this before, during the times where the tears wouldn't stop and he forgot to drink water afterwards. He gives up after a few attempts, too tired to bother doing anything other than sulk in his chair.

Two days and he's already cracked. Now Quatra will never ally with him, and he'll be a prime target in the bloodbath. Katsu's most handsomest son is going to die Katsu's most pitiful son, not question about it. At least he knows he won't become a ruthless killer now. He wouldn't have that weighing against his conscience when he dies.

The door slams open, crashing into the wall with a loud thud. Tooru startles, though doesn't jump as much as he normally would. He must really be exhausted if his limbs don't even react normally to a shock. He turns in his chair to see who's burst in—a doctor? An official? A trainer?—and finds himself surprised to meet the distraught gaze of Anari.

Anari basically sprints into the tiny room and crashes into Tooru, wrapping him in her arms and stroking his hair with a shaking hand. Someone else follows behind her, name tag on his shirt declaring _Cody_ , as he checks the clipboard in his hands.

"Sweetie, oh my God," Anari fusses. "I'm so sorry—they didn't tell us the new dummies were more realistic—are you okay?"

His throat is dry and scratchy when he says, "I don't know."

Anari hugs him tighter. "I'm here," she cooes. "I'm here, Tooru."

Cody—well, he has to be Dr. Cody, right?—clears his throat then. Two pairs of eyes flicker to him, waiting for him to continue.

"You should be fine physically to continue training today," he tells Tooru. "The shock of the dummy bleeding led to a panic attack, so I'd advise sticking to the non-combat stations for the rest of today and tomorrow."

"But I need to—"

"Mr. Ikeda," Dr. Cody says. His tone is softer, more concerned. "The only way I can let you continue using those things without having another panic attack is to give you morphling—and that's highly addictive. Not to mention it'll impede your physical abilities exponentially." He sets down the clipboard and moves closer to the duo. Like Anari, Dr. Cody comes in close to Tooru and does his best to keep the boy calm. The thought is most definitely appreciated, since Tooru's used to being yelled at for being unmanly in times like this. "I spoke with Miss X while you were out and she's more than happy to teach you some things she learned outside of combat. Survival skills and the like. It's a very generous offer that I think you should take her up on."

Anari nods in agreement. "Quatra insisted she help you after what happened. She said she could teach you how to put together a small explosive, even."

The statements catch him off guard. Quatra X, the spy who has so many better people to pick from than Tooru, wants to help Tooru despite of his breakdown. He doesn't know what to say, let alone feel—he just knows that the pain in his chest isn't despair, that the tears that spring to his eyes aren't sadness. Even when he'd proven to be useless with a little blood—fake blood, no less!—on him, Quatra still wants to stick by his side.

Maybe he really does have a strong friend and ally in her. Maybe she really meant it when she'd said she'd be there for him, no matter what.

With a trembling lip, Tooru wipes at his eyes as best he can and nods. "Okay," he croaks. "Thank you, Dr. Cody."

* * *

 **Phyllis Hamilton, 18, District 7**

 _Thirty-three…_

She heaves herself up to the bar and holds her weight for a second.

 _Thirty-four…_

Right ahead of her is the budding career alliance, already going from three members to four. The pink-haired girl who'd thrown up all over the place at her reaping looks to be speaking to them, nodding along with each reply and ignoring everyone else around her.

 _Thirty-five…_

So far Ham seems to be the only one doing pull-ups. Everyone else found their ideal station yesterday, it seems, and the only ones not doing anything are Gossamer and Nikostratos—again. They just stand to the side and chatter with smiles on their faces, pointing out the occasional tribute.

They'd pointed out Ham five minutes ago. The sinking feeling in her stomach hasn't improved since they moved on to the careers. With the added sabotages given out to the oh-so-special C-District kids, the duo won't be good news for her. Especially if they see her as a threat.

One of the perks of her position is who she can see directly across the room. The chemicals and medicines are across from her, three people occupying it so far while others watch. The hero from Six, Finnegan or whatever, silently cheers on the girl from Eight—Cham? She thinks it's Cham. Whatever her name is, she's good with the chemicals. The small mixture she's made is successfully ignited when she drops something into it, only to be quickly extinguished by a trainer who begins a loud lecture about fire safety.

The other two at the station are the pipsqueak from Twelve and the new Synthia. Ham stares them down, glowers at the fourteen-year-old, as they chatter innocently to each other without a care in the world.

 _Thirty-six…_

She'll probably end up using the pipsqueak and play weak until the last minute. No one would know her true self but Ham, who at least has some common sense in remembering that Synthia Quanta is mentoring the brat. Even if she didn't want revenge—which she honest to God, unequivocally does—the least she can do for the rest of the tributes is take her down in the bloodbath.

"You're gonna give yourself an aneurysm if you keep that expression up."

She startles, losing her grip on the bar and dropping onto the mat beneath her with a heavy thud. Ham groans as she stares up at the person who'd deigned to join her; they could've announced their presence a little less shockingly.

When she recognises Octavia, the girl from Ten, Ham immediately looks back down to the floor. No need to take in features and commit a face to memory—she spoke enough with Octavia yesterday to remember that much. Octavia just waits patiently as Ham clambers to her feet again.

As Ham pats her behind and lets out yet another groan, she says, "You bored or something?"

"Strategising," Octavia corrects her. She looks away from Ham then, surveying the other tributes with an almost critical look to her. Octavia did it yesterday as well; Ham remembers seeing her linger in some places rather than actually try stations out. Maggie calls it a way to play it safe—while simultaneously being the least safe option to make it out of the bloodbath. "Call me crazy, but I think some of the Capitol kids are up to something."

"Sabotages." Ham stands beside Octavia and follows her line of sight. The group Octavia watches is the already close-knit career girls. Valentina and Morganite, she thinks their names are. They're getting along like bread and butter, chatting away at the archery station while a smaller, green-haired boy practices his aim. "They get one chance to fuck it up for all of us and no one punishes them."

"How wonderful." The girls turn from the group, moving their attention to another gathering of Capitolites. Adrianne from Four seems to have a little posse built up, all smiles and reassurances. Like a found family that won't see more than two days whole. "If Gossamer has a sabotage he can get away with, then I'm definitely avoiding all the careers."

"You wanna share with the rest of the class your reasoning for that?"

Octavia smiles to herself, amused. "I thought you weren't interested in what other people were doing."

"That was before the careers came into it." Ham scowls to herself and shakes her head. She points over to the spears station, where Cetronia from District Two practices her throws. Every target is struck at a vital point, no chance of survival if they'd been real. "That one was scouting me yesterday. She was watching you a little today, too."

That gets Octavia's interest. The brunette looks over her shoulder at Cetronia, an almost annoyed expression on her face. Ham will admit that she's curious about the look, but doesn't get much of a chance to ask about it. Octavia mutters to Ham, "You have a shadow too?"

Shadow? Is that what she's calling it? Ham huffs a laugh. She nods anyway, deciding to give the training centre a quick survey and see if she can guess who's been tailing Octavia. No one is looking their way outside of glances that sweep the whole floor. Ham looks down at the floor as she purses her lips.

"What would you say your talent is? Hunger Games-wise, I mean."

Octavia glares down at her. "Why do you want to know?"

"To flush out others we should avoid. Anyone not interested in us being in an alliance will most likely size us up." Ham shrugs. "Gives us a better chance to avoid danger."

The taller girl hums for a moment. She looks left and right, almost searching for stations to name. After a few seconds of silence, Octavia turns on her heel and heads off towards the station devoid of other people. Ham peeks over her shoulder, curious, and finds the knife racks lining the wall beside it.

Ham's brows rise as she follows. Her day spent watching Daphne for signs of a darker personality comes to an end, a new interest taking her attention. She watches as Octavia picks up one of the knives and weighs it in her hand. She half expects her to take it over to the throwing section; Octavia, however, moves for the dummies nearby.

"Keep an eye open, then," Octavia grunts, and then all of a sudden she's plunging the knife deep into the first dummy's abdomen.

Ham feels her stomach lurch as she—unwillingly—replaces the dummy with herself in the action. Octavia drags the knife with a loud, violent grunt, and then the dummy drops to the ground as fake blood and innards spill out onto the floor. Gutted in one stroke, quicker than even Ham had expected of the girl from the livestock District.

She whips her head around to focus on the other tributes, and sure enough there are some reactions to go off of. The career pack—well, the _actual_ career among them—is watching with wide, impressed eyes, while a few of the younger tributes are gawking and paling at the sight. Ham catches sight of Daphne, and she can see the flurry of shoulder jerks that accompany the soft squeaks she hides behind her hands.

And then there's the ones to really worry about. Cetronia, of course, continues to watch. There's no doubt she'll approach the duo for a second career pack, seeing as all other options are either hoarding the C-District tributes or recruiting bloodbaths. A little farther away from Cetronia is the Five team, Tooru and Quatra. After Tooru insulted Ham yesterday—why in the world did he think that being from Seven meant Ham didn't know how to read or do math?—she has no doubt he'll go the defensive route with her once the sirens go off. Quatra stands close to him, whispering hurriedly into his ear as she watches Octavia with an unreadable expression. There's no doubt there'll be a plan to take them out formulated by the duo.

Finally, Gossamer and Croix. The twosome that has everyone on edge more than the careers. They snicker and nod with each others' remarks, pointing at Ham and Octavia almost smugly. Those two, coupled with their advantage, are going to be trouble for the girls.

"Who's top of the list?" Octavia asks as she hands the knife to a trainer. She moves by Ham's side, nodding for her to take a turn.

"Cetronia will definitely approach us," she reports as she moves for one of the dummies. Octavia will probably want a turn to look, which she's more than fine with—more than one set of eyes is handy. "Five and the pompous pricks are discussing us in a different manner, though."

"Anyone else?"

"Just Knight from One. His collection of C-Districts don't look too happy by his interest."

And with that Octavia takes over the watch. Ham squares up in front of the dummy, inhaling deeply and exhaling slowly. The dummies are made to feel and take damage like a real person—the synthetic, crash test dummy skin bruises as realistically as possible, and the organs and overall body match the average human body's production.

So when Ham punches it in the jaw with a hard, powerful right hook, the fact that its entire neck bends and snaps under the pressure while its cheek concaves and jaw unhinges makes her blow all the more horrifying. Some of the tributes paying attention actually let out noises of surprise that are followed by a chorus of, "Oh my God."

"One more," Octavia mutters. Ham obeys and drops into a crouch, swinging both fists down at the knees of the dummy. Another snap, the knee turning inside out.

At least now they have an idea of who to avoid, though Ham could also argue _they_ have taken over that role now.

* * *

 **Cetronia Livius, 17, District 2**

Today's proved to be interesting, to say the least.

Cetronia nibbles at her meal as she watches the rest of the cafeteria. Training today has definitely been a step up from yesterday, people's true skills starting to show in attempts to intimidate. A small explosive from the boy from Twelve, the swift gutting performed by the girl from Ten. There's definitely a lot to pick from for usefulness in an alliance, but no one she _needs_ is showing competence.

Ever since Wystan joined with Knight, seeming almost smug last night when he announced it at dinner, Capitolites have flocked to the boy. First the pink-haired girl representing Six, then the girl representing Twelve starts talking with them. Knight's slowly amassing a crowd of Capitolites, trying to play the hero to the Capitol.

She'll give credit where credit is due: It's a solid plan to get the people on his side. He's definitely following Atticus Clarke's methodology of sponsorships.

Cetronia stirs the yogurt in her bowl once as she scans the other Capitolites left. She's seen a few that could be useful—Church, for one—but the people around them have already earned their favour. Church is too attached to his partner, literally holding her hand through every station and making her smile whenever he can. Luxor seems to want to patch things up as soon as possible with his partner, and it's pretty obvious that Cyber is going to join the resident mother hen and her slowly growing group. And Quatra, while having all those skills befitting of a spy, inexplicably stays by Tooru's side and watches the girl from Ten from afar.

There's bound to be more to the Quatra/Octavia story, but Cetronia isn't going to dwell on it. She has a victory to ensure.

The only ones left that could prove useful are Gossamer and Nikostratos, and they're wildcards at this point. A son of a Peacekeeper is bound to have training under their belt—Wystan does, after all—and the way Nikostratos holds a conversation with the haughty boy implies an equal level of wit. Cetronia spoons yogurt into her mouth as she considers an angle to approach them. Maybe getting someone on her side prior to them will convince them? They've been focusing on a few loners today, discussing them with knowing smiles.

Her first thought goes to Gossamer's partner, Octavia, and the way he's been observing her activities over the past two days. He looks at her almost like a project, something to be proud over the handiwork; maybe he's given her tips to work on and is waiting to see if she's good enough to ally with. It'd make sense to get the person with potential to shine to hone their skills before proposing an alliance.

But with Octavia, Cetronia remembers upon looking for the girl, is Phyllis from Seven. Short and unable to look anyone in the eye—a clear sign of weakness, right off the bat. But after today's show of strength, she can't help but wonder what the burly girl could be hiding under the shy facade. Cetronia drops her spoon into the bowl and picks her yogurt up with a deep intake of breath. Maybe they'll be the key she'd need to snag a Capitol tribute. Wave the girls in front of them, and the ones seeking shelter will flock to their sides in no time.

She carries the yogurt over to their table and sits down without so much as a word to them, effectively stopping whatever conversation they were having. Octavia's head shrinks into her neck, almost offended, while Phyllis squints at Cetronia.

Cetronia just continues eating her yogurt like normal.

"Can we help you?" Octavia says after a moment. Behind them the other groups chatter. Out of the corner of her eye, Cetronia can see Gossamer watching with interest.

"I saw that show of yours today," she starts. "You two are pretty skilled."

Uneasy glances. They either know what she'll ask and are uncertain about it, or they think she's here for something else entirely. Something of the threatening variety.

"Knight probably won't extend an invitation to you, since all he needs are Capitolites," Cetronia goes on. "And Adrianne isn't quite _career material_. You two, though—"

"No."

Cetronia actually gawks at Octavia. "Excuse me?"

"You're excu—" Octavia begins. Phyllis jumps in before she can finish, though. Good; Cetronia would probably put Octavia on her shit list alongside Wystan if she'd finished that sentence.

"Octavia and I already came to an agreement," Phyllis insists. She not-so-subtly kicks Octavia from under the table, earning a pained hiss from the girl. "We don't have anyone we're interested in allying with—"

Code for "don't trust anyone". There's no such thing as no one interesting enough to ally with.

"So we're just going to stick together for now. If we're both kicking around the final eight, we'll part ways."

Cetronia looks at the smaller girl. It's still hard to believe the punch she packs. She's so used to people being closer to her own height when that strength is shown off. As soon as she meets Phyllis's eye, the dark-haired girl shifts her gaze to Cetronia's shoulder.

"A pact, then," Cetronia says. "Using mutual distrust to make sure it falls through."

An uncomfortable look crosses Phyllis's face. "Essentially," she mumbles.

"You'd go farther with a third person."

"We'd split earlier if we all survive the bloodbath," Octavia jumps back in. "Final eight is the closest we can get to going our own ways peacefully without having to immediately fight and put ourselves at risk too soon."

"With a third," Phyllis adds, "we'd have to part at the midway point."

"If you survive."

She nods. "If we survive."

What a shame, she thinks. They both won't budge on the matter with the plan they've laid out, and they sure as hell don't seem to want to be in their own career pack. Despite having the skills for it and the raw power to survive, there isn't enough trust.

Cetronia can respect that. To a degree.

Right now, though, it's a mild annoyance. She huffs and picks up her yogurt, stuffing another spoonful of the stuff into her mouth as she does so. She heads back to her previous table and revises her plan to get a Capitolite on her side. She may have to rely on one of the useless ones—and she'll be damned if she does that.

A hiss comes from her left. Demanding and urgent, clearly directed at Cetronia as it repeats with every second she ignores it. Cetronia sighs as she looks over at Gossamer and Nikostratos. They'll either gloat at her failure to recruit even one outer District ally, or they'll be inexplicably impressed by her guts and ask to join her. She doubts the second one will happen.

But she looks anyway, and lo and behold Gossamer is waving her over—well, more like beckoning her with an inward-curling index finger. Less casual, more demanding and authoritative. She could just ignore him, try her luck with someone else after the failure of recruiting Octavia and Phyllis. But, she thinks as she moves her yogurt for a third time, a chance is a chance. Nothing ventured, nothing gained.

The first thing Gossamer does when she sits down is lean his elbows on the table, propping his chin against folded hands. Far from a demure expression aimed at her, and Nikostratos is the same.

"Gossamer," she greets.

"Cetronia," he returns.

"Nikostratos," she goes on.

"Just Croix is fine," Nikostratos replies sweetly.

Gossamer sniffs and smiles at her. "I notice your entourage is a little lacking," he says, stating the obvious. "Such a shame Mr. Knight keeps getting all the good ones, no?"

Ah. So it's not to laugh at her. It's to egg her on and test her temper. See if she can keep her cool.

"What of it?" she asks evenly.

"I was thinking," Nikostratos says, "maybe you don't need a willing alliance before the arena launch to be successful. It's not like every single career pack in Hunger Games history hasn't had a hostage or slave made of an outer District kid with the threat of their life."

"Twenty-Ninth Games," Gossamer adds with a pleased nod. "Broke one of his legs so he couldn't run and used him as bait."

"Genius," Nikostratos agrees. "Totally within the rules, as well."

"What's your point?" Cetronia interrupts. She will admit that she's interested in the statement, the way Nikostratos had emphasised that not every alliance had consensual members.

Gossamer smiles sweetly at her, mimicking Nikostratos's own toothy grin. "What if we organised something that benefits both of us?" he says. "Give you an alliance, give us a show?"

She glances over at the career table, where everyone talks animatedly about strategies and the like. It all could've been hers if she wasn't given some honour-bound kid as a partner, if someone had volunteered and made Two look more appealing than One.

So she leans forward, forgoing her yogurt, and says, "I'm listening."

* * *

 **Oooooooooh I wonder what the glorious bastards have planned with Cetronia :3c Since that'll probably get a good few theories, how about we make that the QQ?**

 **QQ #20:** What do you think Croix, Gossamer and Cetronia's plan will be?

 **Next chapter will be day three, and boy am I excited for it! Next time we'll be seeing Octavia, Church and Croix's perspectives! See you all then :D**


	27. Last Minute Preparations

**It's been a while! I'm back to bring our final training day, and then next chapter we'll have private sessions! I hope there aren't too many mistakes here, but it's nothing I can't edit and fix later, amirite? I hope you guys enjoy this chapter, because it has an event I've been _dying_ to write since the parade.**

* * *

 **26 - Last Minute Preparations**

 **Octavia Faye, 17, District 10**

She's not sure how she's going to survive the next twelve hours. Hands folded under her chin, gaze trained blankly on her breakfast, Octavia is left at a loss for how she'll go on to her private session and interview later today. Yesterday had been easy. Yesterday saw her scaring younger tributes and rejecting one of the bigger contenders with enough guts to make her brother and father cheer for her.

But today is going to be a challenge. Today will be one event after another, preparing her in a one-time scenario for the sudden changes the Games go through.

Dianne shifts in her seat with a tired groan. For the first time since arriving in the Capitol, she's put on a pair of bright blue sanitary gloves. In all the times she's seen Dianne over the years, visiting the shop and handling the meat for the rest of her family, she's never seen the woman hide her skin from everything she comes in contact with.

She won't ask about it. Gossamer already bragged about why Dianne put the gloves on as soon as he'd made himself comfortable beside Octavia—something about it being a horrific hybrid of haphephobia, carnophobia and mysophobia. She isn't sure what two of those are, but Octavia is more than certain the carnophobia is the fear of meat that Dianne shows more prominently this morning. Dianne had actually gone pale, dry heaving into her shirt collar as she scrambled for the bathroom after a mere sliver of bacon was found in her scrambled eggs.

If this is what might become of Octavia in the arena, she's not sure how she'll survive life outside of the Games. The least she can do for Dianne is not draw attention to it by asking.

Now Dianne is just sipping at a protein shake, the fingers of her free hand shaking even after Gossamer left for the training centre. Octavia has yet to touch her own breakfast. Too many things are weighing on her.

Not only are the next twelve hours going to be a challenge, but then there's the girl representing Five. Quatra X—Capitolite spy, but having never actually lived in the Capitol. Octavia's heard the conversations her partner's had with other tributes, slowly piecing things together on her own. It just strikes a chord with her, the fact that someone spying _for_ the Capitol is in the Games.

It strikes a chord with her that said spy looks like someone who visited the Faye shop almost every day. It strikes a chord that this spy _happens_ to be reaped into a Quell that also has a rebel's child. She can't tell if she's going crazy or if the paranoia of being a potential target in the bloodbath is getting to her, but seeing Camelia Caballo's face every time she looks at blonde, grey-eyed Quatra X is starting to mess with her head.

So when Gossamer leaves this morning ahead of her, Octavia shoves her scrambled eggs away from her line of sight and inhales sharply.

"Dianne," she starts.

The woman hums once, barely looking up at Octavia. A good choice—Octavia hasn't really hidden her bacon very well under the eggs and toast.

"Do you remember the girl from my dad's shop? The brunette who told me to be more observant or whatever."

Dianne pulls the drink away from her lips. Octavia must've caught her interest with the question. "What about her?"

"It's…" Octavia chews her lip. "It's dumb and I'm probably overthinking things, but… Don't you think she looks _really_ similar to that Quatra girl?"

"So you noticed," Dianne says blankly. Octavia glances up at her. A pair of calm, plotting eyes are staring back at her, Dianne's gloved hands now steady against the surface of the table. "I looked over your file during the Parade, Miss Faye. It rubbed me the wrong way, a Capitol child living 'officially' in the Districts being reaped this year. I'd assumed Nirav mentoring was the reasoning behind Quatra's involvement—"

"But he wasn't?"

Dianne shakes her head. "Adam has very loose lips. He bragged that Quatra lived in the livestock District up till now. Given your particular…" Dianne pauses, as though searching for the right word. "Your family history. Given that and Quatra's previous home, I'm more than certain _you_ have something to do with her reaping."

Octavia's stomach drops to the floor. All the denial and silence about it all, refusing to disagree with others in Ten over her mother's rebel ties—has it all been for nothing? Was there ever any point to making a point of going down a different path to Isabelle's? Octavia never got in trouble. She wasn't out trying to "escape" her home like Victor tends to. She never made a step out of line, always did her chores and supported her dad as best she could. Hell, Octavia's never spoken to her mother since she was… God, if it weren't for the posters she would've forgotten Isabelle's face by now, alongside her voice and mannerisms.

She has no connection, emotionally or physically, outside of genetics to Isabelle Eulane. And yet the Capitol— _maybe_ —have her on a watch list.

It's all too farfetched and out there. Octavia makes it very clear she when drags her plate back to her line of sight and spits, "Bullshit."

Everyone in District Ten knows Octavia has nothing to do with Isabelle. Isabelle isn't someone she hates—far from it—but she's certainly not someone she'll copy the actions of. Children are impressionable; but Octavia long since stopped being a child after Isabelle left.

"You have allies, I assume?" Dianne looks away from her as she pulls the bacon out from under her eggs. Octavia chews angrily at it as she hums affirmatively. "Who?"

"Does it matter?" she retorts with her mouth full. Octavia rushes herself to swallow the bacon. If she spits any in Dianne's direction by accident, the conversation might end in tears and stomach acid.

"I noticed a few tributes who'd mesh well with your personality," Dianne says idly, "but I suppose that doesn't matter."

Seconds pass. They turn into moments. Octavia is half-finished with her breakfast by the time she gives in to her curiosity; Dianne had been going somewhere with the question, and if Octavia doesn't answer she might not get the advice that could save her today.

As soon as she finishes eating her fill, Octavia hands the plate to the Avox standing behind her and mumbles, "It's Ham. From Seven."

Dianne sneers. The name must not be appealing to her— _Octavia can't imagine why_ —but she keeps it together as she nods. "Mentored by Magnolia. Do you and… ' _Ham_ ' have a plan?"

She shrugs. "Ally until the top eight. Scatter afterwards. That's if we both survive the bloodbath, though."

"So nothing concrete." Dianne leans back in her chair. She hums thoughtfully, leaving Octavia to get ready to head to the training centre. She almost doesn't care to hear the advice as the minutes tick by, her precious training time slowly slipping out from under her the longer she waits for the woman. But, true to Dianne's enigmatic form, she gives Octavia the advice that remained a mystery up until now. "Miss Faye, I want you to make sure you and Ham survive the bloodbath. There's every chance you'll be targeted by Quatra, or even by the careers. If you can at least show a fighting spirit, show a camaraderie with Ham, then doubts regarding where you stand between the rebels and the Capitol will be settled."

Octavia hums lowly. She knows fighting is something she'll have to do, and she knows Ham is the only person who won't actively try to kill her on sight once that buzzer goes off. The advice feels almost redundant—until Dianne adds one last piece to it.

"Tell Lola tonight that you're excited to be in a Quell. Tell her you're excited to be part of Panem's more notable history. Tell her that you and Ham are ready to give it your all for your fans in the Capitol."

 _Tell the Capitol that you're not your mother_. When Octavia steps out of the room, she feels just a little more on-track. Just a little more like she has a plan to survive once the timer starts. Just a little more like she has a chance of shaking her shadow.

* * *

 **Nikostratos Croix Farrington, 18, C-District 3**

"How's the planning going?"

Gossamer doesn't bother looking up from his sword. After two days of doing nothing and watching everyone, the taller boy has finally decided to show off his skills to Croix. Croix won't deny that he was surprised to see Gossamer live up to his ominous bragging. Most kids from the Capitol—including himself at times, he will admit—tend to make mountains out of ant mounds when talking about accomplishments. It's nice to see someone backing it up and justifying their attitude with action.

He just continues on with his swordsmanship as he replies, "Had a few people in mind."

"Wanna tell me who?" Croix goes on. He leans back in his seat by the edge of the station. There's not a lot around here he's interested in doing, and Gossamer is fun enough company to have. Bit of an asshole, but who doesn't have a narcissistic streak at times? (It's just that, in Gossamer's case, his narcissism never seems to run dry.)

Gossamer demonstrates a parry that serves to jar his trainer's wrist. The trainer curses and stumbles back, dropping his sword and telling Gossamer to take a quick break. Gossamer has quite the smug expression when he turns back to face Croix.

The two sit on the bench and observe the other tributes. That's all their training days have been—watching and planning, observing weaknesses and strengths. They hadn't acted on any of their plans until yesterday, after talking things over with Cetronia. Croix won't deny that he'd expected her to turn them down—but Gossamer had been right about desperation mixing with pride and anger. He'd been right about the so-called archetypes all the tributes fall under. (And, Croix thinks, there's no doubt he's been assigned one by Gossamer in secret.)

There's a few groups that have formed, the biggest being the careers. Altan has just been a pro at amassing Capitol tributes to stay by his side, practically snatching them from under everyone's noses. All but a select few.

Avita Clements-McMillan hasn't been spoken to one by anyone outside of the girl representing Twelve wanting to be social. Croix was surprised at first over the reluctance to interact with her on Altan's part, but two days of training has made it apparent why: Avita isn't the most capable tribute to have on a team. Plump and top-heavy, as entitled as everyone else Croix knows. None of the weapon stations she's tried have shown success, and now she sits idly at the edible insect table and poking at samples with a scowl. The C-Districts in the career alliance all bring something to the table. Avita doesn't.

Then there's Simoleon Serif, who spends so much time with Adrianne that Croix can't blame Altan for not trying with them. And then Quatra X—the spy who always, _always_ watches that girl from Ten—barely moves from Tooru's side throughout the day.

Croix grunts as he shifts in his seat, waiting for Gossamer to let him in on his plan. He's only been given small hints as to what the whole plan will result in come the bloodbath, and so far Croix only knows that Gossamer will manipulate who launches where and that Cetronia will target the careers.

As though reading his mind, Gossamer starts on the topic of the alliance. "With all her strength, Cetronia might still be overpowered by the sheer number of people in the alliance. So I was thinking that maybe we can cripple it somewhat. Or at the very least unnerve some of them and make them trip up."

"Oh?" Croix is most definitely interested now. He scans the room, finding all the Capitolites who continue about with their training like nothing is wrong. Like they have no idea what they'll be in for once that sun rises tomorrow and the countdown begins.

Gossamer nods to one particular group—the one that has the model, Luxor Aricunai. For some reason the boy from Six has been hovering with the duo from Eight, doing his best to make conversation and keep the mood light. "I think your sabotage might work well with making some of the C-Districts choke at the last minute."

It's an interesting way to use his sabotage. Gossamer doesn't make any suggestions for how to use it, but Croix doesn't need any. He's got a few ideas, especially since he's going to have to make sure everyone else sees. Croix keeps his gaze on the boy from Six for a while, calculating and working through his options—and then his clicks his finger with a smirk.

"Act natural," Croix tells Gossamer softly. "I don't want anyone thinking you had anything to do with this."

"Good choice," Gossamer agrees as he stands back up. He stretches a little, putting on a show of getting ready to resume his training. "Try not to make it too boring."

He snickers at that. Of course Gossamer would be worried about whether or not it will be boring. Croix waves him off as he stands up, parting ways from the swords station with a casual stride. It should be easy to convince the boy from Six to do something reckless, then let gravity take over. Whether this plan accidentally kills him or not is up for debate. Croix just wants to make an example of the boy to the others.

Saddling up to the trap station, Croix wastes no time greeting the trio hard at work. The girl doesn't bother looking up at him, her concentration stuck on her rope trap, while her partner looks warily up at him. It'd be more effective if Croix would execute the plan on Luxor, damage his chances of making it beyond the bloodbath—but then everyone else would be scrambling to help him, and his sabotage would be wasted. The boy from Six is his only option, considering Miss Eight won't even respond to him.

"You're… Croix, right?" Six asks slowly. He smiles sheepishly, like he's ready to be corrected, but Croix just nods.

"Yeah. I don't think I ever caught your name."

"Finn." Finn shrugs with a laugh. "Not exactly a name you'd expect from Six, I know."

Keeping up the banter is easy. Compliment his name, ask if he can join in with the trap making. Croix gives it a good few tries to wear down whatever defenses Finn might have tucked away in his mind. What he'll suggest to the boy will more than certainly set off alarm bells.

Banter turns into talks of what they hope will impress the Gamemakers. Croix brags about his intellect, detailing his plan to make use of the memory and edible insect stations. He learns that Finn is a pretty decent runner, and that he and a friend of his had joked about how well he'd do if he used that in his session. Croix's plan becomes more and more clear as conversation carries on, until finally he decides it's time to strike.

With an excited look to him, Croix shuffles closer to Finn and whispers, "Think you'll be any good at the gauntlets?"

Finn's head snaps up at the question. "What?"

"The gauntlets. Those platforms over there." Croix points in the general area of the station. Given how few careers were reaped this year, it's only been used once. Cetronia probably saved the poor station from going a whole Hunger Games without use. Finn follows his gaze and seems to pale at the sight of the station. It's no surprise that he's off-put by it, but Croix knows he can get him to give it a try. "The whole point is to be fast and dodge the trainers. You'll probably get a really good score on it."

"I don't know…" Finn glances fleetingly back to the pair from Eight, who are now watching the conversation with wide eyes. "What do you guys think?"

The girl looks to Croix once, her expression blank, before she looks back to Luxor. She must be leaving the verdict to him, because she doesn't say another word as she goes back to her rope trap.

Luxor stares past Finn at the gauntlets for a moment. They sit in silence—agonising, horrifying silence—before finally Luxor shrugs at the boy.

"No harm in trying, I guess."

* * *

 **Epsilon Church, 17, C-District 9**

Knight looks him up and down with an almost amused look to him. "You're joking, right?" he scoffs.

Church, stoic as ever, shakes his head down at the career. "This is the Hunger Games," he deadpans. "Why would I joke?"

"It's just—" Knight looks over Church's shoulder, most likely at Bel calmly nibbling on her snack. " _The whole package_ isn't really what I'm looking for."

"But you'll take the one-track-minded girl obsessed with owls," Church retorts.

That earns him a scoff and eye roll from Knight.

Church will be honest: He doesn't want to abandon Bel for an alliance as broken as an all C-District alliance. The fact that Knight had even approached him after Church had suggested Bel have something to eat early has him more than just a little prickly over it all. Church may have the skills to be a career, but he's already made his decision with regards to his District partner. If no one takes Bel, no one gets Church.

Not everyone seems to be very accepting of the sentiment. Knight just pinches the bridge of his nose with a deep sigh, looking more exhausted than someone in his secure position should be.

"Fine. Whatever." Knight waves Church off, already backing away from the teen and heading in the direction of his own alliance. "Enjoy your whole _thing_ you've got going. No hard feelings come tomorrow."

He may as well have said that Church and Bel made his shit list. Church will have to make extra certain that Bel doesn't get hurt tomorrow.

He heads back over to the station she's at, where she's almost finished her protein bar and is thanking the trainer for giving her time to eat some more. Rye had been rather cruel this morning, throwing a fit once she found out that Church didn't want to ally with anyone but Bel. She'd thrown plates and breakfasts all over the room—and by the end of it all, Church was dragging Bel out the door before Rye had a chance to lob something at them next.

When Bel catches sight of him, she waves with a big smile. The two have gotten closer over the past couple of days. Church could go so far as to say it's what he imagined having Sarah around would be like. All the secret grins and sneaking around, staring out at the Capitol buildings through the window and learning about each other. Church's heart had momentarily stopped beating when he learned that Bel has a brother his age, the idea that someone else had every risk of losing their younger sister like Church does filling him with dread. His first actual conversation with Bel had made him want to protect her solely because she's Sarah's age—but now, knowing about where Bel comes from and who shaped her to be who she is, Church wants nothing more than to see that family stay whole.

Bel takes his hand with little fuss when he stands by her side. It's almost routine, like the warmth of his hand gives her a little more confidence and reassurance. He feels like he can be a big brother again, and he hopes he comes off as such to Bel in times like this.

As soon as she finishes the bar, she pulls her hand out of his and claps it lightly with her free hand. Bel shakes them in front of her stomach twice—a sign she taught him last night, which she uses in place of "ally". Church had learned that a lot of words used in the Hunger Games never had a signed counterpart. Given that "friend" and "ally" can be similar under the right circumstances, she's picked a good substitute for the word.

He shakes his head. "No," he says, making sure she can see his mouth. "He didn't like what I told him, so it's just us for now."

She gives him a thumbs-up. Bel isn't fussed over it, probably happier that she isn't going to be in a big group that would have to make her open up all over again.

"So," he goes on, changing the subject, "how's this station been so far?"

The trainer jumps in then, seeming almost eager to brag about Bel's progress. She places a hand on Bel's shoulder—startling the small girl for a moment—and beams at Church.

"Oryza is quite excellent at recognising different seeds and leaves," she says. "Not many kids from Nine do as well as she has."

That makes sense. Apparently Bel works part-time cleaning silos and lives on a property that produces wheat. If she didn't do as well as the others then Church would be more stressed than he already is.

"I'm very sorry to hear about Miss Coven," the trainer adds. She lowers her voice as she adds, "Bel told me that she hasn't been the nicest person."

Yeah, that's the biggest understatement Church has heard since training started. Church purses his lips and nods, softly agreeing with the statement as he waits for the trainer to go on. She smiles down at Bel, removing her hand and gesturing to the table, as she continues to explain how well Bel's scores compare to the others tributes' so far. It's a conversation that is, unfortunately, short-lived. As soon as the trainer delves into her praise she's cut off by a commotion on the other side of the room.

Church takes a few seconds to recognise the sound that rings through the air—a scream. Agonised and on the verge of pained tears, barely any words able to be formed by the unfortunate tribute. He whirls on his heels, searching quickly to see who it could be, but soon finds himself turning back to Bel and shoving her face into his chest to hide her view.

The gauntlet is not a station to be taken lightly, even by careers. Church avoided them for a good reason over the past few days, but someone else didn't seem to consider the same choice. The boy from Six is on the floor, a trainer by his side and calling for doctors. Bel squirms and fights against Church's grip, but he can't let her see this. He can't let her see the way Finnegan's leg has seemingly snapped in half, his tibia jutting out of the skin and sending blood to the floor in its wake.

Church hurriedly pulls Bel's face out of his chest, instead shoving it closer to his own and blocking out Finnegan's form from her sight. "I don't want you to see this, Bel," he says. Her eyes scan his face in horror—what kind of scenario could she be conjuring up, he wonders? "Someone's hurt. I don't want you to see it."

He doesn't even realise he's pleading with her until the trainer takes Bel's hand and keeps her focus on the station. Church's chest is hurting as he looks back over at Finnegan—at all the blood on the floor, pooling around his legs and smearing against his hands. The cries he lets out sound so familiar, sound so close to the ones Church had let out when his mother's head landed on his lap. When glassy, dead eyes stared up at him accusingly.

His breathing falters for a second. Church pushes himself to stay upright, to not get light-headed and pass out. He's seen worse. He's prepared for worse. A little blood won't stop him when he's so close to seeing his plan through.

Finnegan is lifted out of the room on a stretcher, injected with enough morphling to make him so braindead that he doesn't even realise he's drooling. The duo from Eight try to hurry after him, the girl's hands over her mouth while the boy panics and apologises over and over.

The gauntlet is sectioned off as Avoxes come in to clean. Church does everything in his power to stay in Bel's peripheral, keep her from seeing it until it's clean. He knows he can't stop her from seeing blood being shed forever, but he can at least hold it off until the bloodbath. She doesn't need this stress on top of Rye's behaviour.

* * *

 ** _Forgive me David_**

 **That's our chapter! Since it's the final day of training, I'll draw up a little list of the "official" alliances so far (alliances confirmed in-story) after our chapter question is done!**

 **QQ #21:** Do you think Croix's plan to throw off other tributes by using Finn's injury will work?

 **Bit of a simple question, but you never know! Now for the alliances:  
\- """Career""" Alliance: **Knight, Val, Wystan, Morganite, Florence  
\- **Wholesome Alliance:** Adrianne, Simi, Daphne, Cole, Cyber  
\- **The "No Homo" of Alliances:** Ham, Octavia  
\- **Found Family:** Bel, Church  
 **\- Tall, Handsome and Petty:** Gossamer, Croix  
 **\- No witty alliance name, they're just sweet:** Quatra, Tooru  
\- **A Very Weird Combination:** Cham, Luxor, Finn

 **Keep in mind that this is just pre-bloodbath alliances! Until everyone knows who's still alive afterwards, this is who they _plan_ to see the Games through with. I'm interested in seeing where you think the alliances will go, but for now let's see how everyone does with their private sessions and interviews! Till next time, everyone!**


	28. Strut Your Stuff

**GOD THIS TOOK SO LONG TO DO. SHOUT OUT TO OFFICIAL BENGY AND MUKKOU FOR ENCOURAGING ME WITH THIS**

 **But hey here we get some more insights to sabotages _and_ find out what's going on with some characters! Lemme know what you guys think, and as usual I'll leave the QQ at the end!**

* * *

 **27 - Strut Your Stuff**

Malvolia yawns and stretches her arms high above her head. It's going to be a long day today, but at least she only has to do this once. It's the one thing she dislikes about being Head Gamemaker—having to sit through every individual kid and judge them based on ten minutes of actions. She used to be pretty generous with scoring, hoping to give them something to cling to, but now it's just too difficult.

Why smile and tell a kid who royally messed up a simple snare that he did a good job? Why hold back the cringe when a girl who wants to show off her knife throwing skills misses almost every target by a mile? Sometimes the lies are too difficult to keep up with, and it's easier to be tactful about it. High scores to the kids every Gamemaker agrees needs to be targeted, low scores to the truly unremarkable children. Everything in between is compared by personal scorings and then decided through a mean.

Honestly, the mathematics is probably the easiest part in this section of pre-Games prep.

She sips at her pink pina colada with a blank stare towards the training room. Other Gamemakers scramble to find their own seats and pile their plates with snacks, only two others joining Malvolia in drinking some alcohol. Usually it'd be troublesome to get even the smallest bit of alcohol into your system for something like this, but Malvolia always writes it off as a part of her judging process. Celestia always said she was a blunt, merciless drunk, so why not use it to judge children who will die by the end of the week?

The seat beside her is filled, Darios Aricunai glancing warily at his boss. Malvolia continues to sip her drink.

"I saw the names on the tribute list," Darios starts. Malvolia hums. "I didn't… I hadn't realised my own _son_ …"

"Half of us were at risk of losing our children to the Games this year," Malvolia states. "Two of mine were on the line as well."

The man nods, his lip quivering as he takes in a deep breath.

"Hang in there, Aricunai." Malvolia slides a chocolate from her plate to his. "It's just for today."

By the time everyone has settled, the first tribute is being called in. Malvolia takes a long chug of the pina colada as the name of the first tribute rings out through the speakers above.

"Valentina Teagan, sixteen; representing District One."

The girl in question walks into the room, giving the Gamemakers a quick bow as she introduces herself and thanks them for her time. Malvolia takes in her appearance as best she can, committing it to memory so she can differentiate her from the other girls who will present themselves today. A bit on the smaller side, probably what most will call petitie; she's probably the only person Malvolia's met that would fit the term "mousy" when looking at her appearance, as well. Mousy blonde hair, mousy face. A pretty girl, overall.

Valentina makes her way over to the archery station with a determined skip in her step. Malvolia will admit that she's curious to see what the girl will accomplish. As far as she knows most Capitol children don't learn how to use weapons in their lifetimes, with the few who do being from Peacekeeper families. Valentina picks a crossbow off the wall, loading the first bolt with a loud, disgruntled groan, and she begins her presentation.

Of the five bolts she loads and fires, two land in the bullseye. The remaining three land within the outer gold rings, just barely missing the perfect score that could've given Valentina an edge against the others.

"Thank you, Miss Teagan," Malvolia says into her microphone. Valentina bows again, thanking the Gamemakers for their time, and walks out the way she came.

"She's certainly set a standard for the others," Darios mutters to Malvolia. She nods in agreement, scribbling her own score on her paper and telling everyone to finish up before the next one comes in. All it takes is a good five minutes, and then the private sessions continue.

"Altan Knight, eighteen; District One."

Altan is one of the more noteworthy tributes so far. He's got the majority of C-Districts on his side, and he's made his presence known to the public since day one thanks to his aggressive method of volunteering. Despite being a whole two years older than Valentina, Altan stands around the same height. His appearance betrays his attitude, the admittedly adorable parts of his face and stature expected of someone years younger than himself. Malvolia wonders if all the people joining his side are only there because of his appearance, seeing as he's a little less threatening than Cetronia Livius has proven to be.

"I request a trainer to show off my talent," Altan announces. One of the Gamemakers behind Malvolia picks up a microphone, ordering one of the trainers to take a sword and join Altan's side.

Altan is a lot more of a scrapper than Malvolia expected. The moment the mock fight starts he's charging at the trainer and taking advantage of openings presented before him. Altan's small stature plays into his advantage with avoiding blows and striking more vulnerable areas, and it isn't long before Altan manages to end the fight. The sword is flung out of the trainer's hand, skidding a few feet away from him as Altan raises the sword to his throat and says, "Yield."

Some of the Gamemakers actually applaud him. It's nothing overtly remarkable in Malvolia's eyes, but from a logical standpoint he's done rather well. Well enough to establish that he's more than just a cute face, at least.

"Thank you, Mr. Knight. You may leave."

As soon as he's out the door, a Gamemaker to her other side says, "Lola's going to talk him up like the sun shines out of his ass."

Malvolia snorts a laugh and downs the rest of her pina colada. She sets it on the table and clicks her fingers in the air. "Bring me a purple one this time," she yells to the Avoxes at the back of the room.

"Cetronia Livius, seventeen; District Two."

She scowls. That was quicker than Altan's delay. She doesn't want to sit through any of the performances without a drink, damn it.

Cetronia is as stunning and statuesque as ever. Ever since she was announced to the Capitol as Two's volunteer, she's been the name on everyone's lips. _Cetronia will win; Cetronia is gorgeous; Cetronia is what every career should be_. Malvolia will admit that at first she never saw what everyone else did in her—the shaved head and intimidating height put her off for a while. But now she's seen Cetronia in the Parade, emulating the pride and grace of the greater victors in history. She's more than career material. Cetronia is _victor_ material.

And never has that been made more clear than now, when she engages in hand-to-hand combat with her trainer. The poor man is overpowered and defeated within the minute, leaving Cetronia to request more trainers to fight against. To say the large scuffle that breaks out isn't entertaining would be a lie. Malvolia's never seen such a way of showing off strength before, nor has she seen so many trainers bested by a mere teenager.

It's both terrifying and magnificent. Even Malvolia is clapping once Cetronia's time is up.

The purple pina colada is set beside her wordlessly, and she takes an experimental sip of it. As Cetronia leaves the room and time is given to the Gamemakers to score her, silence settles over them.

Darios coughs into his hand. He raises it above his head and sighs, "Scotch on the rocks."

The dark-gold liquid is on his table within minutes.

"Wystan Warwick, fourteen; representing District Two."

The tribute Malvolia affectionately compares to a Christmas tree. The red and green that makes up his appearance is amusing at best, the two scars on his neck giving off the illusion of someone who's experienced with battle. He's even smaller than Altan and Valentina; Malvolia can't help the small snicker she lets out when she realises this.

Like the careers before him, Wystan requests a trainer to fight with. The stance he takes with his sword is refined and calm, his posture loose and his expression a blank slate. Malvolia's brows rise with each successful parry and strike he lands, with the way Wystan conducts himself in the duel and how well he manages to keep his vulnerabilities hidden from the trainer. Much like Valentina, he's doing a lot better than Malvolia expected.

Wystan nods courteously to the Gamemakers before he leaves. Considering how well Districts One and Two have done, Malvolia gets the feeling that the rest are going to be quite the bore in comparison.

"Daphne Petharaph, fourteen; District Three."

The first thing Daphne does when she comes in is walk up to one of the trainers and whisper into their ear. Malvolia squints at the action, curious as to why she'd need to hide what she's doing, and announces into her microphone, "Did you need something, Miss Petharaph?"

Daphne squeaks loudly, her foot jerking out to her left. "I—I just wanted to get a few things," she stammers. "For my p—presentation."

"And they are?" She signals for the trainer next to Daphne to get ready.

Daphne looks left and right almost nervously. "Uh… May I please have some diethyl phthalate? And hydrogen peroxide and—" She squeaks. "S—Sodium acetate? And TCPO?"

"Anything else?"

She chews her lip before nodding once. "And some rubrene, ma'am."

Malvolia has a feeling she knows what Daphne is going to make, but signals for the ingredients to be fetched anyway. There's no harm in seeing how well the girl makes what she's planning to show off—after all, mixing chemicals without them blowing up in your face tends to be a lot more difficult than people think. The chemicals are all delivered in jars, and a larger, empty mason jar is also brought out to mix them in. Daphne wastes no time getting to work, mixing everything together except for the hydrogen peroxide with a shake of the lidded jar.

Once she pours in the peroxide and gives it a hefty shake, the mason jar emits a very strong, very bright yellow glow that illuminates Daphne's face. Even with the lights on it glows so obviously. As though to help show off her accomplishment, a Gamemaker behind Malvolia switches off the lights in the training room. The glow is even brighter than Malvolia expected.

"Thank you, Miss Petharaph," Malvolia says. Daphne is escorted out quickly, her arms flicking out every so often as she mutters how relieved she is that it's over. Malvolia tries not to call out to her, to remind her that this isn't even the worst of it, but refrains and sips at her pina colada some more.

"A fun skill," a Gamemaker behind her remarks, "but she won't have access to all of that so easily in the arena."

Indeed.

"Nikostratos Farrington, eighteen; representing District Three."

Malvolia's ready for him when he swaggers in, clicking her pen open and closed.

"You're the one who was responsible for Finnegan Styx's broken leg, correct?" she says slowly. Nikostratos nods from his spot in the training centre. Judging from where he's hovering right now, Malvolia can guess he'll make a show of his cognitive abilities rather than his physical ones.

"I am."

"You have two options, Nikostratos—"

"It was my sabotage, Head Gamemaker." He waves a hand at her. It's a cocky, dismissive action. "I was uncertain of whether or not the trainers were aware of the condition, so I decided to wait until I saw a Gamemaker next to report it. Is that all?"

Malvolia clicks her pen open a final time. "Proceed."

Nikostratos is a tall young man. Like many his age he has his own tattoos, and his hair has long since been changed from its natural hue. Malvolia can't help noticing the difference in eye colour compared to his Parade footage—contacts, she wonders? Even if he doesn't get to wear them in the arena, he'll still probably earn many fans thanks to his looks alone.

As expected, he heads for the memory stations and proceeds to silently complete as many questions as he can. There's absolute silence in both rooms, the Gamemakers watching with bored expressions and munching on their food idly. Nikostratos doesn't bother to give them much attention, expression unreadable even as he finishes stages and moves onto harder, longer ones.

His time is up before Malvolia knows it. She sends him off, noting the curt way he bows before he makes his way out, and soon it's a matter of arguing over how well his score could be. This always happens with tributes who use memory stations. Not only is speed important, but also how much they answer correctly. It's hard to score for one without considering the other.

"Adrianne Evans, seventeen; District Four."

Compared to the Cetronia, Adrianne is plain. Cute, maybe—much like Finnick Odair had been as a child—but not the image of a career most look for. Regardless, she still looks every part a child from Four: Toned, tanned skin, accompanied by blueish-green eyes that remind Malvolia of the mixture between water and glacial flour. More attentive fans of the Hunger Games will take notice of those eyes rather than the silky, dark-brown hair Adrianne keeps in a ponytail, though Malvolia wonders if the girl will be overshadowed even in that aspect by Cetronia.

Unlike most from Four, Adrianne doesn't show off her swimming abilities or her capability with a spear. The girl simply walks in, already dressed in a swimming uniform, and drops herself neatly into the swimming pool. Gamemakers—Malvolia included—lean forward in their chairs to figure out what is happening. Adrianne just sinks to the bottom, making zero movements while the seconds tick by.

Darius is quick to bark an order once everyone considers the grim possibility that Adrianne is drowning herself. He snatches up his microphone and yells, "Get her out, now!"

The trainer that dives in stays under for a few seconds, hovering near Adrianne's form. It's hard to see her move much, one of her hands _maybe_ forming a sign to the trainer. After a minute the trainer surfaces. He pushes his hair out of his face and stares up at the Gamemakers with wide eyes.

"She's not drowning." It sounds like he can't believe himself when he says this. As he hovers there, Adrianne continues to remain under the water. "I think she's showing how long she can stay underwater."

"Keep an eye on her," Darius orders. The trainer nods and dives back under, this time remaining by Adrianne's side for as long as he can.

She surfaces once. The first thing she does is flick her ponytail out of her face and gasp, "How much time to I have left?"

To everyone's astonishment, she still has half of her session left to go. Malvolia has to chug the rest of her pina colada to get over the stress of that demonstration. Every since her first year, suicide attempts have been a big concern for her. She wonders if Celestia will agree to Lola's mental health assessments after this. It'd definitely help everyone keep their peace of mind.

Adrianne spends the rest of her session doing laps of the pool, freestyling back and forth until the timer goes off. She bounces out of the room with a smile while the trainers and Gamemakers contemplate the minor scare they'd been given.

Things are somewhat tense after Adrianne leaves. All the panic over the possibility of her drowning, only to find out it was a simple demonstration, has left them exhausted already. Malvolia chucks the rest of her current drink, rattled, and demands a water replace it once she sets the glass back down. The same Avox brings her a mineral water—apparently they knew her preference for it beforehand—and Malvolia contents herself with simply sipping at it for now. She'll probably throw up if all the stress and alcohol mix with the large gulps of water, she tells herself.

"Simoleon Serif, seventeen; representing District Four."

What proceeds from Simoleon's introduction is… Well, "a mess" seems a bit generous for the display. The moment Simoleon enters is the moment the breakdown starts. Fingers card through brown and turquoise hair and dark brown eyes dart to and fro. Malvolia watches patiently as they look to each station, their anxiety becoming apparent, before finally they simply sink to the floor and curl in on themselves.

Darios asks a trainer to check on them, and soon enough the medical staff is being sent into the room. Good grief, Malvolia thinks as the hyperventilating, crying teen is escorted out of the room without so much as a piece of work to show for their talents.

"Well…" Darios sinks into his chair and downs the rest of his drink.

"One every year," Malvolia sighs. "Try not to pity-score them, by the way," she adds over her shoulder to the other Gamemakers.

Next up is someone Malvolia's been waiting to hear a report from, though most times outside of schedule tribute assessments have been too suspicious to approach her. She sets aside her clipboard, learns forward in her seat, and watches the door for the next tribute.

"Quatra X, fourteen; representing District Five."

The young spy takes her place in the centre of the room, hands behind her back and expression blank at she regards the Gamemakers. Malvolia knows she won't be presenting anything today—if anything, she'll simply be given a random score based on how well she's gathered information so far.

"Go on, Miss X," Malvolia says into her microphone. Quatra nods and sucks in a deep breath.

"So far it seems that no one with direct rebellious intent is in the Games," she reports. "Octavia Faye hasn't made any wrong moves, nor has there been any talk of anti-Capitol stances. I do recommend keeping an eye open on the District Ten pair, if only because they're dangerous in completely opposite ways."

"Noted."

"Oh, and Ms. Nero? I'd like to register my sabotage with you before I finish."

Malvolia raises her brows.

"Regardless of what she presents, I would like to sabotage Octavia's score to be a twelve and make her a target. She's made enemies, and they'll no doubt go after her in the bloodbath once they see the score."

She nods. Everyone begins to write on their clipboards once Malvolia signals to them. It's obvious they're scoring Octavia now before they forget. "Thank you, Miss X."

Quatra leaves the room soon after, and it's agreed by everyone else that an average score will suit her best. She's done her job, and it's clear that she'd used her sabotage in favour of the Capitol's intentions. The X family gave them a good child to work with.

"Tooru Ikeda, fourteen; District Five."

Compared to Quatra's simple report, Tooru at least puts some movement into his presentation. He greets the Gamemakers with a nervous smile, and Malvolia can't help noticing the sweetness to his gaze. It'll die quickly during the bloodbath, she thinks as he moves over to the swords on the far side of the room. The sweet ones always break the quickest.

Tooru picks up one of the swords—it looks almost heavy in his slender hands—and staggers over to the dummies. Last time he'd used the station, Malvolia realises, he'd passed out due to stress. One of the other Gamemakers realises this as well, immediately asking those towards the front, "Is it wise to let him do this?"

"Unless he tries to hurt himself," Malvolia recites, "we let him do as he pleases."

It simply turns out that "doing as he pleases" results in a pretty bad reaction from Tooru. The doctor had been right not to let him use the dummies or even the combat stations for the rest of his training. The moment Tooru strikes the dummy, he lets out a loud dry heave that leaves Malvolia preparing for a cleanup before District Six can even have their turn. But he perseveres, striking it a second time before he drops the sword and clamps a hand over his mouth.

When Tooru is escorted out—not dismissed, Malvolia notes with a glance to the time—the question on everyone's lips is what to do about the tributes' mental health. They've only just made it to the halfway point, but the psychological effects of mere training is starting to prove a concern.

Malvolia calls Lola, wasting no time bringing up the issue once the younger woman picks up. "Did you still have that monitoring plan you wanted to show Celestia?"

" _My plan? Yeah, but why?_ "

"I think we're beyond being in denial over how badly this is affecting tribute performance," Malvolia sighs. She sips at her mineral water through her straw. "Half of these kids probably need to go on a suicide watch before the Games start."

" _Ah. We'll see how this one goes, but I'll keep them ready to send. You'd need to back me up with it, too._ "

"Can do, Miss Amos," Malvolia says. She gives a small thumbs-up to her team, who let out collective sighs of relief. "I'll send you the scores later today."

" _Godspeed_ ," she jokes.

And with that, the halfway mark approaches.

"Morganite Gardierre, fourteen; representing District Six."

She's a small, pretty girl. Unlike Valentina there isn't much to her in the way of a figure, but Morganite more than makes up for it with her striking pastel pink hair and confident stance. She hasn't stood out much these past few days—all the rage has been with the careers and the sabotages made so far—but Malvolia has a feeling the girl will prove capable on her own.

And she does. Morganite wastes no time showing off her ability to climb the ropes suspended from the ceiling, nor does she leave the Gamemakers much time to keep a proper eye on her before she vanishes into one of the stations. She's a slippery one, Malvolia will give her that. Morganite goes so far as to stay hidden during the rest of her session, climbing down on the opposite end of the room once the small buzzer goes off.

It's impressive. She's sure to make her alliance proud with the score she'll get.

"Finnegan Styx, seventeen; District Six."

When Finnegan hobbles in, still somewhat under the effects of his medication, all Malvolia can feel is pity. Ever since this morning he'd been in surgery, his leg being patched up as best as the staff could manage on the time limit. Any normal circumstances would have Finnegan healed and ready to run again in under a week. With only a day until they launch—and less than a few hours following his surgery to rest—he's essentially a sitting duck.

He slurs a greeting and, with his crutches loosely under either arm, moves for the archery station. He hadn't shown any talent with the station during the last two days of training—if anything, Finnegan's greatest strength lies in his mobility.

Mobility Nikostratos took from him.

She keeps her face blank as she watches him weakly cling to the crossbow Valentina left behind. Finnegan struggles to load his first bolt, losing his grip so badly that he cuts his finger on the device and drops it with a start. This is how he'll been graded, she thinks with a sigh. He probably won't be scored on effort alone. If he can't get a single bolt on the target, even if it's just the outermost ring, Finnegan will fare as poorly as Simoleon.

But, she notes with a smile, he keeps going. Even as he screams through his teeth while he bends down to pick up the crossbow, Finnegan _keeps going_. That's all she can ask for from him.

He winds up firing only one bolt, but it miraculously lands halfway between the inner and outer rings. He's in tears—messy, hideous tears—as he's helped out the room.

"Phyllis Hamilton, eighteen; District Seven."

Looking every part the girl from Seven, Phyllis storms into the room and immediately sets to work looking over the trainers. She doesn't look at the Gamemakers once, instead pointing to the burliest trainer available and shouting, "You!"

What follows is honestly hilarious. Here's Phyllis Hamilton in all of her five-three glory, hoisting a man twice her height and thrice her width over her shoulders with a loud, animalistic grunt, while everyone else gawks and snickers around her. She starts to run, pacing her breathing—and Malvolia blurts out a loud guffaw. Phyllis spares her one glance in all the time she has allotted, and then the cherry on top for her performance arrives.

Phyllis _flings_ the trainer a full three feet in front of her. Malvolia's basically writhing on the floor, laughter bubbling uncontrollably as tears leak from her eyes. She hasn't had this much fun watching a tribute since the Ninetieth Games! Phyllis certainly earned whatever score she gets today.

"Cyber Tronovsky, twelve; representing District Seven."

Quite possibly the smallest twelve-year-old she's ever seen comes into the room. She's been made perfectly aware of Cyber's circumstances up till now—it's all rather tragic, being trapped in a body that cannot feel after suffering the betrayal he had—but the question everyone has is whether or not the artificial body will give him an edge. He'd certainly be harder to hack apart than others, heavier to tackle as well. Add in his observational skills and he may just be a solid contender this year.

Like Nikostratos, he heads for the memory station and begins to wordlessly start a memory game. Cyber does fairly well at the beginning, matching Nikostratos's speed and precision easily, but the halfway mark shows to be his downfall.

One section of the memory game had something new added for today's training session, and he notices after looking for another one to show his talent with. Cyber blinks once at the topic, taps it, and meticulously absorbs all the knowledge he can from each slide while the Gamemakers watch in disappointment.

"Still got that childlike curiosity," Darios notes. Malvolia grunts.

"He _is_ a child," she reminds him. "It's bothersome, though. He probably won't last long."

Cyber apologises blankly when he's reminded that he has to leave, his time now up. He doesn't put up a fight or demand more time to learn—he just does as he's told, like the doll he is.

"Chambray Hemingway, seventeen; District Eight."

Chambray walks calmly into the room, hardly a word out of their mouth as she stands in the middle of the room. She sucks in a deep, steeling breath, and stares up at the Gamemakers with fire in her eyes.

"My talent," Chambray announces, "is my deception."

Gamemakers mutter to one another in confusion. Deception? When? Who did she deceive? Chambray looks to all of them until finally her eyes land on Malvolia. A challenge. A declaration.

She reaches up and unclasps the choker around her throat. With careful, loving hands she cradles it close to her chest. Malvolia doesn't like where this is going.

"My talent," she goes on, and her voice—while raspy and strained—noticeably deepens, "is making you all think I was Chambray."

Darios dives for his microphone immediately. For a moment Malvolia forgets where the frantic action comes from, but Luxor's existence comes crashing down on her shoulders like a large set of weights. "Explain yourself, Miss Hemingway!" Darios demands.

"I'm not _Miss_ Hemingway!" Chambray says defiantly. "I'm her brother. And I've done everything in my power to make sure you _never_ take my sister away from me."

Had Malvolia been holding a glass, it would've shattered in her hand due to the sheer power she'd have gripped it with. Chambray— No. _Calico_ snarls up at the Gamemakers with his fists clenched around his choker. Nothing but rage radiates around Malvolia, infecting each and every Gamemaker as the sheer _insult_ of Calico's actions registers to them.

"Arrest him!" Darios shouts. Calico turns to face the trainers, ready to fight. He's overpowered easily, dragged out of the room as he threatens to expose the flaw in the Games' system if they bring the real Chambray in his place.

Darios is seething once Calico is removed. Malvolia calls Celestia immediately, ignoring Darios's outburst about how it's all Calico's fault that Luxor is even in the Games this year.

" _Done already?_ "

"Celly, there's a problem." She explains the situation to the President, and the immediate response is surprisingly calm.

" _Keep him in the Games. Send him to me for a talk after the interviews and give him a high score in the meantime. He'll want you to keep up appearances_ — _humour him._ "

She hangs up without another word. The instructions don't help to calm any of them down.

"—GOING TO STRANGLE THE LITTLE BASTARD MYSELF!" Darios is trying to push past the Peacekeepers stationed at the door. "LET ME OUT, FOOLS!"

" _Darios_!" Malvolia booms. Everyone falls silent. Even Darios ceases his yelling. "Sit back down and continue your job!"

"My _son_ , Mal—"

"I don't give a rat's ass about the fact that he's your son, Darios! Either you sit back down right this instant and pretend like we never learned about Calico, or I have you arrested for treason—do you understand me?"

"Luxor Aricunai, eighteen; representing District Eight."

" _Now_ ," Malvolia hisses.

By the time Luxor enters the room, the intensity of the air is thick and heavy. Darios is visibly shaken as he watches Luxor move for the spears, but he doesn't dare open his mouth. The glances to Malvolia are proof enough of his fear.

Luxor proves himself decent. Not outstanding, but good enough to show _some_ budding abilities. He conducts himself professionally—oblivious to his partner's earlier scene—and goes so far as to thank the Gamemakers for their time.

Before he leaves, he waves up at his father with a smile. The sound of absolute agony that escapes Darios makes Malvolia want to roll her eyes.

"Oryza Belfast, fifteen; District Nine."

The deaf girl. Malvolia sinks into her seat with a heavy sigh. "This is never-ending."

Oryza shows off a rather surprising skill, scaling the rock wall with minimal assistance from the trainers. For a scrawny, underfed girl from Nine, she does almost as well as Morganite. Had she had any other talent to show off with her rock climbing skill, she'd certainly get a higher score. Malvolia smiles despite herself. She's done well to prove herself today. Her partner should be proud.

As Oryza descends the wall, she lands on her feet with a small grunt. She bloods at her palms hurriedly, probably trying to ease the heat that comes with pain, and then finally she leaves with the signal from a nearby trainer.

"Sweet girl," a Gamemaker behind Malvolia notes.

"Indeed," Malvolia agrees.

"Epsilon Church, seventeen; representing District Nine."

Compared to his partner, Epsilon is much more intimidating. He looks like he has a plan as he strides in. Much like the other two career boys, Epsilon requests for close quarters combat to demonstrate his talent.

Whatever he has as a hobby, it's definitely unorthodox. He's doing better than Wystan had with his swords, and Epsilon is only using his _fists._ It's like watching a one-sided boxing match, the poor trainer getting his ass handed to him on a silver platter by Epsilon with every punch.

His knuckles are bruised and bleeding a little when his time is up, but he's definitely doing better than the trainer. A couple of teeth have been knocked out and his nose is most definitely broken. Malvolia's actually impressed.

He's escorted to the infirmary as the next District is announced. _Only six to go, hang in there._

"Octavia Faye, seventeen; District Ten."

The subject of Quatra's sabotage. All eyes are glued to Octavia as she walks into the room. Darios, for the most part, has begun to drown his sorrows in more scotch; everyone else is more than willing to see what the rebel's child has to offer.

Octavia picks up a knife from one of the stations and walks over to an unused dummy. There's a displeased, scrunched up expression on her face as she looks between the dummy and the knife. In one jerky movement she stabs the knife into the dummy's chest. It topples to the ground, bleeding out.

She glances back at them. They're expecting more from her. Octavia just half-heartedly kicks the dummy before calling out, "Can I go now?"

What an underwhelming performance. As she's escorted out, Malvolia deadpans, "She did that on purpose."

"I hope all these rebel scum die," Darios sobs drunkenly.

"Gossamer Wormwood, seventeen; representing District Ten."

Octavia's partner—another person Quatra warned them about—swaggers in with a smile. Gossamer looks more than confident as he makes his way to the swords station, his posture and footwork elegant and perfect as he gives a small, solo display.

It's when he invites a trainer to fight with him that he lets loose. Gossamer goes on the offensive, and Malvolia's never seen a tribute enjoy themselves so damn much while fighting a trainer. The smile on his face is blood-curdling and predatory, the way he exploits his trainer's weak points almost horrifying to watch. It's a miracle that Gossamer doesn't draw any blood—though, if he'd been given more time than was allotted, Malvolia is certain he'd have done more than just that.

As the buzzer goes off, Gossamer disengages and looks up at the Gamemakers. "I could also provide mental skills," he offers. Malvolia shakes her head.

"You've already used your sabotage. Please vacate the area for the next tribute."

He does so with a smile, gracefully holding himself high above the trainers who see to his exit.

"Avita Clements-McMillan, fifteen; representing District Eleven."

The pudgy girl that enters is less than impressive. Malvolia never knows why, but every time they get up to District Nine the excitement begins to wear off. Maybe it's the boredom of repeating the same thing over and over. Maybe these Districts just seem to be a natural conductor of uninteresting tributes. Maybe a bit of both.

She tries her hand at a dart gun, surprising everyone by the choice, but not much happens in the way of performance. Every shot is missed, she fumbles when reloading, and more than once Avita drops the weapon due to recoil. If Malvolia's being honest, Finnegan did better with the crossbow.

Avita pouts and crosses her arms in front of her chest as the buzzer goes off. She probably knows she'll get a bad score, and her expression shows it when she looks up at the Gamemakers. As though out of pity, someone behind Malvolia begins to applaud the girl.

Avita leaves with a newfound bounce in her step after that. At least she has _one_ supporter.

"Jareth Vilna, fourteen; District Eleven."

Compared to his well-fed partner, Jareth is a walking skeleton that looks like he's seen better days. She's seen how much tesserae he's taken over the years, and Malvolia's a little shocked he doesn't have a little more meat on his bones thanks to it all. It's not something she particularly wants to focus on—District Eleven's childrens' wellbeings have been somewhat of a sore spot for her since she first began her job. So she forces herself to ignore the boy's physical state, instead focusing on his talent.

Like a few others, he challenges a trainer to a fight. Jareth squares up and gets ready to attack—and then, within mere _seconds_ , he's thrown back with a cry and landing on the matt with a dull thud. This is how each attempt to start a fight ends, and it's… Pitiful. That's the only thing to call it. The display is pitiful, Jareth is pitiful, the determination he shows every time he gets up is _pitiful_.

The buzzer goes off just as the first few bruises begin to colour. Malvolia cradles her head in her hands with a heavy sigh. It'll only get worse from here.

"Florence Fontana, fifteen; representing District Twelve."

And _how_. Florence looks like she'll bring something smart to the table, but when she opens the memory game all she does is match _birds_. Owls, canaries, magpies, past feathered mutts. All _birds_. It's exhausting to watch, and even Malvolia is downing as much alcohol as possible to just make it end.

With a few minutes left on the timer, Florence finishes up and calls out, "Can I put in my sabotage?"

Malvolia sighs deeply. "Yes?"

"I wanna have a mutt like the one from the Forty-Third Games appear! The big barn owl!"

 _God_. She actually feels sorry for Nirav Cashille, of all people. How in the world did he end up with the most childish tributes there?

"Sure." Malvolia sends a message to the mutt designers through her tablet. "Is that all, Miss Fontana?"

"Yeah! This'll be so cool—I get to see Lola after this, right? I've been waiting so long to say hello. She's so pretty and nice and beautiful. Do you think she'll like me? I hope she likes me. This is so exciting! Maybe she'll take me to the aviary and we'll have so much fun watching the birds! And Luxor will come too, and we can hold a tea party and—"

The buzzer, in an act of mercy, goes off.

Florence is escorted out, and Malvolia is most definitely feeling the buzz in the back of her mind. She'll have to apologise to the mutt designers later for any typos that might have appeared in her message. It's really been a long day.

"Cole Aish, twelve; District Twelve."

The last one… The last tribute… Malvolia has never been more thankful in her life.

Cole, to his credit, shows something more entertaining than Florence had. He heads over to the chemistry table and begins to gather supplies, and soon enough he's making a mock molotov cocktail. It's small and unremarkable at first—but then he spills it just as it's set alight, and the panic that erupts is he wake up call the Gamemakers were in desperate need of.

Trainers put out the fire (which had somehow spread across the entire table, threatening to reach the dummies next door) and Cole is escorted out with endless apologies in his wake. "Please don't tell Buttercup!" he begs. "She's really mean to me!"

Malvolia really, _really_ feels bad for Nirav Cashille. More so for Buttercup.

"We're done," she breathes, relieved. Three sabotages logged, and twenty-four "performances" given out. It's all they have to do for the day. They can simply score everyone and call it quits, leaving more than enough time to relax before the bloodbath tomorrow.

She rises from her chair with a groan. She doesn't even pay the drunken, sobbing Darios any mind as she heads to the door. Instead, she looks to the Avox closest to her and says, "Bring me six more of the fruitest cocktails available."

It's going to be a _long_ night.

* * *

 **DONE! And that's not even going to be the longest of the chapters, heck. Mik has their work cut out for them...**

 **QQ #22:** How many of you saw the twist with Calico coming?

 **Bit of a simple question to ask, but this has been in the works for a while and I think I hinted at it too much lmao. But that's the private sessions done! Next up is the score reveals, and we'll be hanging around with Sim for those! See you then!**


	29. The Dead Man's Switch

**This took a little less time than I'd thought to write, so I figured I'd update before the new year! We're one step closer to the Games now, but first some scores :D As usual, QQ is at the bottom of the chapter!**

 **Also, for those who get confused by a few things: Sim's pronouns fluctuate with their nickname, which is why he's referred to as a he and Sim as opposed to a they and Simi. "Mx." is a gender-neutral title that's read as "Mux", which is why Lola uses it for Sim as opposed to Mr. or something similar. Hope that helps with anything!**

* * *

 **28 - The Dead Man's Switch**

 **Simoleon Serif, 17, C-District 4**

"Sim, you okay in there?"

He finishes washing his face with a sigh. "Yeah."

Adrianne walks away from his door, and at the very least it's a comfort to be on his own for once. He really doesn't want Adrianne to see him like this—all broken down and shaking again, just like when he'd been reaped. She'd think less of him, probably wonder if it's really worth respecting his pronouns…

At least, that's what the irrational side to him thinks. Adrianne's proved over and over that she wants the best for Sim. She started an alliance for his sake, taught the other District kids about his identity for his sake. Hell, Sim knows how to stay afloat thanks to Adrianne. All the irrationality nipping at him, worrying him, won't take those facts away.

But it still worries him. Sim pats his face with the towel and hangs it neatly back up on its rung. He knows he hasn't done the best job showing his abilities (understatement of the century, he thinks wryly) and there's very little chance he'll come out with anything higher than a two for his score. He doubts he'll even survive the bloodbath, though voicing this is difficult. Adrianne is bubbly and reassuring, but there's always a limit to how much he can believe her when she says she'll keep him alive.

It's why he has to decide his sabotage before today ends. It's why he has to take a stand, if only for Adrianne's sake.

He at least doesn't look like he's been crying when he comes out of his room. Adrianne and Melvin wait for him on the couch, waving him over with obvious enthusiasm. Put on a smile, Sim. A smile will make everything better.

"No matter what they announce," Melvin starts, scooting over to let Sim take a seat, "I'm proud of you both for doing your best."

The guilt wells up even more in his stomach. Sim _didn't_ do his best. He barely even got to the point of picking what his best could potentially be.

"Same here," Adrianne agrees. "I mean, we've got some really nice allies and we all know how to swim a little, so we're at least prepared!"

He wishes he could just say he'd tanked his private session. It'd make the disappointment when they find out easier to handle. But Sim remains tight-lipped as the TV flickers to life, Lola Amos's smiling face greeting all of Panem with pep and vigour.

" _Good evening, Panem!_ " she cheers. The dress she's wearing is a beautiful shade of green. Sim wouldn't mind trying something in the same shade. " _I'm Lola Amos, your lovely host for the Hunger Games, and we have a very special scoring announcement today! As we all know, half of the tributes this year are some of our very own Capitol children!_ "

The crowd off-camera claps. Lola looks pleased by the response. " _After a long week of training we have our results, and I'm honoured to be the one to share them with you all. Shall we begin?_ "

"Just remember not to let One and Two's scores put you off," Melvin adds last-minute. It's a reassurance that Sim feels is a little too late on its delivery.

" _Starting with District One, we have Miss Valentina Teagan with a score of… Nine! Give her a round of applause, everyone!_ " The crowd claps and cheers. Of course the girl with the career helping her does just as well as them. Sim would feel jealous if he wasn't already crestfallen over the sheer difference in their efforts. " _Her District partner, Mr. Altan Knight, has been given a score of… Ten!_ "

Crowley lets out a long groan behind them. Sim doesn't look over his shoulder at the man, but Adrianne at least asks him what's wrong.

"Four probably won't get many sponsors this year with an opening score like that to compete with," the sullen man states matter-of-factly. "I'd say it was nice knowing you both, but I'm not a liar."

"Harsh," Melvin hisses.

" _Moving on to District Two! I can't be the only one excited, right?_ " The crowd hollers. There's even a few wolf whistles. " _We'll start with Miss Cetronia Livius, who was given a lovely score of eleven! Congratulations, Cetronia!_ _And for her Capitol partner, Mr. Wystan Warwick, we have a score of eight!_ "

"Higher than the career," Adrianne notes, "and lower than the C-District."

"They must be good…" Sim curls in on himself on the couch, bringing his feet onto the cushions beneath him. "We might not make it if they go for us…"

"We'll figure something out!" Adrianne's smile makes him want to believe her. It also makes the guilt in his chest grow larger and larger, becoming almost unbearable.

The crowd takes a while to settle after Two's announcement, but soon enough Lola is given enough silence to move on to Three.

" _For District Three, we have Miss Daphne Petharaph with a score of… Five! I'm sure you did your best, Daphne! As for her Capitol partner, Mr. Nikostratos Farrington, we have a score of_ _eight!_ "

Even District Three did better than him. Sim feels like he might throw up.

" _On to District Four's tributes! First is our lovely Miss Adrianne Evans, who netted a score of nine! My word!_ "

She did so well. Sim can't even breathe as he listens to Melvin congratulate Adrianne, the cheers too horrific to listen to.

" _And her District partner, Mx. Simoleon Serif, earned a score of…_ " Lola's face sags. " _Oh… Simoleon scored a one…_ "

The floodgates open again before Adrianne can even question how he'd gotten such a low score. Even the crowd is lamenting Sim's score, pitying him, and it hurts to listen to. Poor Simoleon. Did something happen to them? Are they alright? Sim just shakes his head. He's the farthest from alright. He's a failure and a burden and _pathetic_ —

"Breathe, Sim," Adrianne whispers. She rubs a hand up and down his back, but doesn't pull him into a hug quite yet. "Everything's gonna be okay."

Except it's not. Sim's going to die and Adrianne will be left all alone, and it'll be all his fault for not doing better in his private session. Who would want to sponsor someone with a score of one? Who would give such an underwhelming score a chance of winning? He shakes his head and wipes his eyes. It's never going to be okay.

Sim just reaches for the remote and assaults the volume controls, turning the TV up loud enough that even the floors above and below might hear it. Someone else had to have done as poorly as him, he reasons. If he can find out that much, he'll be able to handle it better.

" _Moving on_ …" Lola clears her throat and brings back her peppy attitude. It's almost like her grieving over Sim's score had been fake, what with how quickly she bounces back to her previous attitude. " _District Five! First up we have Miss Quatra X, who earned a score of six! And Mr. Tooru Ikeda, who's earned a score of… Three!_ "

His chest hurts. Tooru was the one who'd blacked out while using a training dummy. He'd gotten a better score than Sim? Sim shakes his head, ignoring the soothing words from his mentor and ally as the next District is brought up. There are still plenty more tributes to go, he reminds himself.

" _On to District Six, and we have Miss Morganite Gardierre with a score of… Seven!_ " His resolve crumbles ever so slightly at the score. The vomit girl is doing better than him. " _Her District partner, Mr. Finnegan Styx…_ "

He can't believe he's thinking this, but he hopes the boy who'd broken his leg tanks just as badly as he had.

" _A neat little score of five, it seems!_ "

He mumbles, "I'm going to die."

"You won't!" Adrianne insists. "I'll protect you, Sim! Scores don't mean anything in the Hunger Games—look at some of the victors who got low scores and still won!"

Sim looks blankly up at the TV as District Seven is brought up. "I'm going to die," he repeats, just as hollow as the first time.

" _Next up is District Seven, with our first tribute being Miss Phyllis Hamilton! She's earned herself a score of ten! Congratulations, Phyllis! Her partner from the Capitol, Mr. Cyber Tronovsky, has been given a score of… three!_ "

Melvin wrestles the remote from Sim's hands and tries to turn the TV down. A knock at the door, which is soon answered by Crowley, proves just how much of a disturbance Sim had made. He really is hopeless…

" _On to District Eight, we have Miss Chambray Hemingway with a score of_ —" Lola's face turns into a mask of horror and astonishment. " _What? You're joking! TWELVE!?_ "

It's not an act or anything; Lola is actually shocked at the score, and it'd be a lie to say everyone in the District Four lounge wasn't. Adrianne actually jumps off the couch with a start while Melvin's jaw practically drops to the floor. Sim just stares in awe at the picture of the blonde on the screen, at the avoidant gaze she holds beyond the camera.

"What did she do?" Sim whispers. Neither his partner nor his mentor answer. "Adrianne… What did she…"

"I'm not…" Adrianne shakes her head, never once taking her eyes away from the screen. "I don't…"

Melvin seems to be the only one who can form a sentence out of the three of them. He mutes the TV, turning on the closed captions as Lola continues to gawk at the score. "Don't talk to her," Melvin wheezes. "That's a targeting score. I know I said it helps to ally with who you feel comfortable with, but _do not_ approach District Eight's tributes. Please," he adds, and there's no mistaking the desperation in his voice. Melvin genuinely wants Sim and Adrianne to survive this Quell. It brings a little hope to his heart—that someone, even if it's not a rich Capitolite, will offer whatever they can outside the arena to keep Sim safe. With Adrianne's confidence added in, maybe he might have a chance…

Luxor's name flashes in the captions, and Melvin quickly unmutes the TV. " _...Aricunai, who's earned a score of five. Ahem… Moving on to District Nine!_

" _First up is Miss Oryza Belfast, who's earned herself a lovely score of six! And her partner from the Capitol, Mr. Epsilon Church, has emerged with a score of ten! Good show, Mr. Church!"_

He volunteered. Of course he gets a high score. He probably trained for the unlikely event that the Capitol became involved in the Hunger Games. It makes Sim mourn the days he'd lost just hiding away in his room, too scared to leave for anything other than therapy.

" _On to District Ten! First is Miss Octavia Faye, who's earned_ — _Oh, for heaven's sake._ " Lola lifts a hand to her ear, and it's clear she's addressing her prep team behind the scenes. " _Two of them? There wasn't a typo, was there? No? My God…_ " She looks back to the camera and clears her throat. " _Miss Faye has earned twelve points, it would seem! And her partner, Mr. Gossamer Wormwood, has walked away with eight points!_ "

Melvin sucks in a deep breath. "Chambray and Octavia must have done something to really piss them off," he says. Crowley decides to join the conversation then, apparently deigning to give them words of wisdom that he'd previously elected to keep to himself. Sim has yet to find out how to handle his stage fright, let alone what angle he should approach for his interview.

"Octavia's the daughter of someone wanted by the Capitol," Crowley explains. "It was all the rage when we escorts met up after the reapings. Poor Rosso won't be moving up the Districts this year…"

"What's Octavia got to do with it?" Adrianne asks. She's got a sour look on her face, like she can't quite figure out why Octavia's parent has anything to do with her. "It's not like she committed the crime herself."

"One can never be too certain with rebels," Crowley says with a shrug. "For all we know, Isabelle Eulane is walking Octavia through the Games in secret."

Sim shivers. Rebels are still a thing? He thought it all died down after the Dark Days, when District Thirteen was eradicated as an example to everyone else who dared oppose the Capitol. How is it all still a thing a hundred years later?

He shakes his head. One problem at a time, Sim! He should be worrying about how he'll do in the Games, not some impossible rebellion!

" _District Eleven_ ," Lola goes on, clearing her throat again. " _First up is Miss Avita Clements-McMillan, who's earned a score of… four! Her partner, Mr. Jareth Vilna, has earned a two!_ "

Sim clicks his tongue. Jareth did better than him, and the boy hadn't even shown an affinity to many of the stations. He wonders if Jareth even has an alliance with anyone. Adrianne hasn't spoken to him yet, and no one else was with him… Maybe he'd join up with them if Sim asked?

" _Finally, District Twelve! First is Miss Florence Fontana, who's earned a score of… one!_ "

His heart leaps. Someone else scored as badly as him! He's not doomed from the get-go!

" _As for her partner, Mr. Cole Aish, we have a score of two! There we have it, folks! The official scores for the Fourth Quarter Quell! I know some of you like to gamble money on these kids, so I'm happy to inform you that betting opens tonight after the interviews come to a close! Remember to gamble responsibly!_ "

Melvin switches off the TV.

"Well," he breathes. Adrianne and Sim look up to him. The tears aren't dripping from his eyes as much, the streaks on his cheeks drying up. Sim hopes he can keep himself calm enough to sit through an interview. "This doesn't change anything. You guys still have your alliance and each other, and that's more than most tributes have. I know it isn't much, but I believe in you two."

He smiles at them. Sim musters a weak smile back, which is soon wiped from his face as Melvin and Adrianne sweep him up into a hug. He stands back up at his full height, no longer melting into the floor like the mess he'd been five minutes earlier, and returns the embrace with his mind slightly more at ease. Melvin won with allies who'd done poorly. Melvin had even done poorly himself, and he's still here.

He's still not confident in his chances, but he thinks he might have an idea of what to do about his sabotage.

When Adrianne and Melvin pull back, finally giving him room to breathe, Sim coughs almost out of embarrassment. "I think I might have an idea for what to do with my, um… My sabotage."

"You do?" Melvin looks at him with his brows raised.

"Yeah. You mind if I go and log it now…?"

Melvin gestures to the door, more than happy to let Sim go. Adrianne wishes him luck, and as a final farewell she yells after him that she'll see him for their interviews. Sim waves over his shoulder at her. The moment the door closes behind him, he lets his shoulders sag and his breath wheeze out of him.

They won't be happy when they find out what he's going to do with his sabotage.

The elevator ride is silent, barely even any music accompanying the view of the Capitol he's presented with. Sim's always been aware of how large it truly is, how congested it is, but being so far away from it all feels almost soothing. He's on the outside looking in, comfortably far enough that he doesn't have to worry about everyone else around him.

At least until the door opens at the District One floor.

Valentina Teagan walks in with a polite greeting. She remarks that they're headed in the same direction when she sees the tenth floor's light turned on, and from there it becomes an awkward silence that drains Sim of his emotional energy. If agoraphobia didn't knock him down all the time, anxiety and introversion would do the job in its place.

The elevator dings, and the two exit without a word. Valentina's the one who takes the lead, knocking on Head Gamemaker Nero's office door. Sim just hangs behind a few paces, hands crossed in front of his chest as he shifts uncomfortably from foot to foot. The door opens, Malvolia Nero's tired face the first thing that greets them, and soon both teens are invited into the office.

"What can I help you two with?" Malvolia asks slowly. Valentina clears her throat, casting an uneasy glance to Sim.

"You don't mind if I say my sabotage in front of you?" she asks. It's a very considerate question, though he thinks she should be more concerned about Sim telling anyone else about it. Regardless, he shakes his head and lets her continue. "Right. I've decided to sabotage one of the tributes by hijacking all of their sponsor gear. I actually wrote down the name for you—" Valentina reaches into the pocket of her pants, pulling out a folded piece of paper for Malvolia's eyes. Sim can barely get a peek at it, and he hopes that it isn't one of his allies' names.

"Alright," Malvolia says. She pulls her tablet out of her drawer and begins tapping away at its screen, and then her attention drops to Sim. "And you?"

"M—My sabotage…" His throat practically closes up. Valentina, nice as she is, pats him on the shoulder. It's not as soft as Adrianne's comfort, but it does hold genuine kindness and support behind it. "I want to, um… I want whoever… _kills me_ … I want them to die as well…"

"Oh?" Malvolia sets down the tablet, intrigued by the request. "How do you suggest I do that?"

He swallows the ever growing lump in his throat. He'd really been hoping she'd figure it out herself. "M—Maybe… U—Um… Overload the… tracker… chip…"

Malvolia looks him up and down, her wry smile growing. She picks up her tablet again and taps at its screen just as fast as she had with Valentina's request, though she makes certain to add as she does so, "It would be a very slow and painful death if that happened. You're fine with that?"

 _Please, let the conversation end._ "Yes," he chokes.

"Alright. If that's all, you two are dismissed."

When they leave the room, two other tributes are waiting behind the door. The first is Luxor Aricunai, chewing his thumbnail with a look of concentration on his face; the other is Morganite Gardierre, whose focus is mainly on her nightgown as she waits for Malvolia to call them in.

Sim and Valentina enter the elevator just as Luxor and Morganite enter. He can't help wondering just what sabotages they'll request. He can't help wondering if they'll target him with them.

He can't help wondering what Adrianne will think when she finds out about what he's done and learned tonight.

* * *

 **Alright, that's the scores done! I'll bet some of you were happy to learn more about some of the sabotages, so I might make the QQ related to it!**

 **QQ #23:** Who do you think Val's going to hijack sponsorship goodies from?

 **Up next is part one of the interviews (RIP MIK), which will give us a POV from Knight and Morganite! I'll see you guys then, and I hope you all have a great New Year!**


	30. Interviews (I)

**This chapter killed me sobs. The length and the dialogue for some of these were too much dsfoslfhdf mad respect for y'all who write Games with more than 24 tributes. I'll be putting the QQ at the bottom of the chapter like usual, so I hope you all enjoy the chapter! No idea when part two will be out, but hopefully it'll be easier to write since I've got a taste from part one!**

* * *

 **29 - Interviews (Part I)**

 **Altan Knight, 18, District 1**

This is probably the most tedious part of the pre-Games ritual.

Everyone getting all dressed up, smiling for the cameras while some airhead gaggles and giggles at your every answer. So much crowd-pleasing. So much pandering. Only so many minutes to sum up endless amounts of emotions dedicated to the Games, to your District, to your determination.

Knight inhales deeply through his nose, trying not to let himself get _too_ annoyed by it all. It's all just so different from what he's told at home and seen on TV. How many days has he been here? Four? On TV it always seems to go by quicker, in the blink of an eye; in actuality, it's a painstakingly slow process of being dressed up and scrutinised at every opportunity. Maybe he's just getting impatient. Maybe Knight just wants this all to be over with so he can make his family proud. (Though proving Atticus wrong along the way won't hurt much, either. The man's done nothing but kiss Capitolite behinds and bet all his money on Val and Cetronia.)

The sooner he gets out of this showy armour, he thinks as an afterthought, the better that will be as well. He's all for going along with the knightly regalia One's stylists latched onto after learning his name, but the armour they've provided is… Well. Knight wouldn't be caught dead in it once the tributes launched. Chainmail and pauldrons are good and all, but it's not the same if the majority of the armour is a flowy cape and meticulously designed gauntlets.

Most tributes are still getting ready, but Val and Knight had the hindsight to prepare early. She stands next to him, going through her breathing exercises and muttering over and over, "You've got this, Val."

A few others have emerged in the ten minutes it takes for the crowd to be seated. Most of them are members of his alliance—though, as Morganite approaches like a woman on a mission, Knight finds himself glad Wystan isn't out yet. The only thing keeping Wystan on their side during the bloodbath is the misplaced assumption that none of Knight's alliance will use their sabotage. With all the focus on what the popular C-Districts will do (miraculously, they're all outer-District tributes), Wystan hasn't stopped to consider the possibility that someone in the careers is trying to level out the playing field as well.

Morganite comes to a stop right beside Val, patting the older girl on the shoulder with a smile. "You're gonna be great, Val," she says softly. "You got a great score, a great partner, and you're absolutely gorgeous in that dress. They'll love you."

With a final whoosh from her breathing exercises, Val nods. "Damn right they will!" she agrees, boosting her confidence. Knight thinks that's one of her best assets—Val doesn't back down due to nerves, instead using the anxiousness to push her forward. Valentina Teagan doesn't get nervous. Valentina Teagan gets _excited_.

"Knight," Morganite adds, this time turning her attention to him. He nods, glancing warily behind her for any other tributes. They're all clear. "Head Gamemaker approved my sabotage. As long as it fits in the tube with me and doesn't make me fall onto the mines, we're good."

"Great," Knight says. He won't admit the slight sigh of relief he lets out as he says it. "The odds are pretty slim that we'll launch near each other, so try hold anyone that comes near you back until I'm there."

"Roger." And with that, Morganite moves away from the duo and settles in the vague area she'd be told to stand once interviews start. Things start to slowly fall into place for them after the conversation. District Two emerges, followed by a cluster of lower Districts. Adrianne from Four is one of the last few out, her outfit probably requiring more time to put on than her hair did styling, and the final tribute is wheeled out with the help of one Luxor Aricunai.

Knight won't deny that he pities Finnegan Styx right now. He'd been a healthy contender, even for someone from Six, and now he's bound to a wheelchair with the bare minimum amount of painkillers injected into his bloodstream. If the kids in Eleven and Twelve are underdogs, then Finnegan is a dead man walking.

Well. Dead man being wheeled about, more like.

When Lola Amos walks onstage, the lights dimming backstage suddenly, she's met with a crowd of cheers and whoops. Compared to her gaudy bird outfit during her reaping recaps, she's dressed down into something more refined. The lavender off-the-shoulder dress is sequined along its bodice and short sleeves, leaving the skirt to flow airily around her legs and give her an almost ethereal appearance. Were it not for the heels clicking against the floor beneath her, Knight would be able to imagine her walking on air in such an outfit.

At least this dress matches her hair, he thinks with approval. Those greens and yellows really never complimented the lavender locks she sports.

"Hel _-lo_ , Panem!" Lola cheers as she takes a seat. "Welcome to the interviews for the Fourth Quarter Quell! We've truly had an interesting few days leading up to this point, wouldn't you agree?"

The crowd cheers again.

"Well, we're not done yet! Let's all welcome the tributes to the stage—starting with Miss Valentina Teagan, representing District One!"

Val practically bounces onstage. From the screen provided backstage, Knight watches the interview. Val's dress is wine-red, and the halter neck and plunging back make her look much more mature than she is. It compliments her figure and makes the crowd go wild as she gives them a twirl. Even Lola is clapping excitedly as Val takes a seat beside her.

"Stunning, Val!" Lola grasps Val's hands like they're long-time friends. Val at least giggles and thanks Lola with a big grin on her face. "I'm sure One is proud to have you representing them!"

"Well I'm proud to be presenting them with Knight, Lola." Val's smile seems to grow impossibly wider. She really is in her element tonight. "I couldn't ask for a better partner or a better stylist team! Did you know they made all that armour we wore just hours before we were sent out for the Parade?"

" _No_!" Lola gasps. "I think that's a record for One's team! Although, Val," Lola goes on, quick to change the subject, "I heard you might be related to a now-retired arena designer. Is this true?"

Val gasps happily. "Yes! My grandfather, Vikram!" She breaks her sentence to wave to the cameras. "Hi, Grandpa!"

"Vikram Plume," Lola muses. "If I recall, he was Magnus Tweed's mentor way back when."

"Grandpa still likes to design arenas in his free time," Val adds. "I don't know if I'll be as good a designer as him, but I'd love to follow his footsteps one day."

Lola nods sagely. She looks as though Val's declaration has pleased her, though Knight can't imagine why.

"A young lady on her way to such a grand future, though… What made you volunteer?"

Val's grin becomes toothy and proud. It's a truly childish expression. "A Quell like this is an adventure of a lifetime for me," Val says simply. "As I am now, I think it's the _best_ kind of adventure to go on and prepare myself for future ones!"

The buzzer goes off right as Val finishes her answer. She's farewelled by adoring fans and a very pleased Lola Amos, which leaves Knight to prepare for his turn. He tucks his helmet under his arm and takes a steeling breath. He's basically wearing the armour he'd been dressed up in for the Parade—midnight blue and adorned with a cape over one shoulder, looking every part the knight that his family donned the name of.

"Next up is Altan Knight from District One! Give him a round of applause, everyone!"

Knight strides onstage with his head held high. The cheers he's met with and the lights that flash as he makes his way over to Lola are enough to make his chest swell with pride. If it weren't so tedious, he'd enjoy it a little.

"Good evening, Lola," he greets once he's seated on the chair next to hers. Lola looks him up and down with wide, appraising eyes.

"Absolutely _gorgeous_!" she declares of his armour. "It's so much more beautiful and shiny up close!"

"My team did well with such a short amount of time," Knight says earnestly. He holds the helmet out to Lola. "They even went so far as to make the helmet function like the historical finds at the Capitol Museum."

Lola gawks at the helmet, then at the crowd. They're all eating it up, cheering for his stylists and for District One. _Watch District Two compete with this_ , Knight thinks venomously as Atticus's words flash through his mind.

"Now, Altan," Lola starts.

"Please," Knight stops her, "call me Knight. Everyone else does."

"Well, _Sir Knight_ ," Lola starts again, exaggerating her tone, "I'm sure we'd all love to hear about your alliance! Can we expect a stellar career group this year?"

Ah. Straight to the point regarding his game plan. He can't help feeling he'd have an easier time just explaining how he scored a ten in his private session. "Considering this year's tributes," Knight says slowly, "I think it's safe to call my alliance a 'career' alliance. I will admit that I'm the only District tribute among them, though."

A collective gasp from the crowd. Knight goes on, "I discussed it with Val and we noticed that the rules of the Quell never specified just how many Capitolites had to be with you at the end of the Games, so we decided to try and win with as many of the Capitol's own as possible."

Lola's hand flies to her chest. She wipes at her eyes, though Knight can't help noting with a sour taste in his mouth that her eyes are barely even watering. "That's so noble, Knight," she fake-weeps. "I'm _certain_ your allies' families will appreciate this for a long time to come. Can we get a little clue as to who some of your allies might be?"

"Well… One of them is a rather big fan of yours, actually." Knight can't help smiling at the thought of Florence bursting onstage once her name is called out. He wonders if she'll try hug Lola. He wonders if Lola will expect the outburst. "Florence is kind of like… Like the heart of the alliance. Keeps things from getting too grim."

"Oh, how sweet!"

"Wystan is also an excellent addition to our group," Knight goes on. "It's an honour to be fighting alongside one of the children of the Peacekeepers. Really makes you appreciate what these brave men and women do for us every day when trying to uphold the law."

Lola nods vigorously in agreement. "Well, Knight, I'm more than certain you're a shoe-in for victor this year. I suppose that teaches me for letting a first impression be my judgement," she adds with a laugh. "But that was quite the entrance you made at your reaping. Who was the boy who held you up?"

"Oh. His name is Klaus Lysandre." Knight shrugs. "We've been next to each other at reapings every year, but I wouldn't say we're friends."

"Oh?"

"We both had… ideals, I suppose. I personally found it easier to train with minimal bonds holding me back—and it's not like your childhood friends stay with you forever, so it mostly helped save a good deal of drama as well."

"I see, I see. So you're more like acquaintances with the same ideals?"

He nods.

"Well I think Klaus has high hopes for you, Knight. A plain old acquaintance wouldn't just hoist up someone they barely knew without a clue they'd volunteer, right?"

Knight opens his mouth to reply, but nothing comes out. The statement's honestly caught him off-guard, making him think more than he'd assumed necessary of the event. Does Klaus really have high hopes for Knight? Is that why he lifted him up as he'd volunteered? Why he'd helped Knight stand literally above everyone else in District One?

He's ready to agree—albeit reluctantly—when the buzzer goes off and startles him.

"It was lovely to have you, Knight," Lola tells him. Knight plasters on his most charming smile and thanks her for her time. As he walks offstage, though, he's plagued with questions over just how well he'd managed to avoid befriending anyone at home.

It doesn't take long for the next tribute to be called out, snapping Knight from his doubts like the crack of a whip. He wants to see how she'll handle being all by herself, especially with everyone flocking to Knight and viewing him as a saviour of Capitolite children.

"The beauty from Two herself: Cetronia Livius, everyone!"

Cetronia's dress makes her look even more mature than Val's had. It's black and only has one sleeve, which sits in an off-the-shoulder style and reaching her wrist; cracks of silver streak over the elbow of the sleeve and spreads over to her abdomen, drooping down to her hip before it stops. Knight notes with a nervous gulp that the crackles have no fabric between them, practically showing off more of Cetronia's skin as she walks onstage and stoically addresses the crowd. Add in the black headscarf, held in place by the silver clasp neatly over her scalp, and even Knight has to admit she's stunning.

He absolutely hates how lost for words he is as he looks her up and down. He absolutely hates the way she catches him off-guard for the first time since meeting her.

"I'm sorry, Cetronia, but I _have_ to do this," Lola starts. She moves out of her chair, standing on Cetronia's other side as she reaches out to squeeze the girl's sleeveless bicep. Lola lets out a wheeze, absolutely gleeful as she gives it another prod.

"The secret is not shirking your work back home," Cetronia says as Lola continues to gush. "That, and having plenty of granite to carry around."

"I'm sure!" Lola scuttles back to her seat, flexing the hand she'd used to squeeze Cetronia's bicep. She has to be faking that disbelief, right? There's no way Cetronia's _that_ impressive.

(She did get an eleven, though.)

"Speaking of home," Lola goes on, "why don't you tell us about what life was like for you in Two? It's hard to believe someone as beautiful and strong as you lived a boring life like the rest of us!"

Cetronia shrugs. "It's subjective," she says, and she sounds so detached from her words. Like she doesn't feel anything about her home. "I lived rather far from the more congested areas of Two. I actually had to leave two hours early just to make it to the Justice Building on time and prepare for the reaping."

"And your family?"

Another shrug. "My mother, my father, my grandmother. There's not much to say other than that I respect them immensely. If not for them, I wouldn't have my life or my accomplishments to speak of."

Lola lets out a soft, interested hum. "Well I, for one, am _very_ thankful for the effort they put into raising you. If not for the twist, I think you'd very nearly be carrying the hype for this Quell!"

That makes Cetronia laugh softly. The smallest of smiles is on her face, a slight shake of her head as she glances out at the crowd. For all her charm in scores and appearance, Cetronia isn't too talkative in front of a crowd.

The rest of her interview is just idle conversation and short responses. The buzzer goes off, Cetronia leaves the stage without so much as a farewell, and Knight is left glaring after her as she leaves for a dressing room backstage.

"That felt short," Val whispers, suddenly by his side. There's a small tray of different flavoured slices in her hand. She offers it to Knight, and he takes what looks to be a vanilla slice.

"They can't seriously want to sponsor her after the whole mum shtick." He bites into the slice, only to gag when he gets assaulted with an artificial banana flavouring.

"Up next is one of the Capitol's own! Welcome Wystan Warwick, representative of District Two, out onto the stage, folks!"

Wystan emerges from backstage, clad in a blood-red suit with a clean white dress shirt underneath the jacket. Like Knight he wears a piece of armour—a shimmering, white pauldron on his left shoulder. His getup is completed by the obsidian tie tucked under his shirt collar.

Wystan takes a seat next to Lola, looking proud as the crowd's applause slowly dies down.

"Welcome, Wystan!" Lola greets him. Wystan nods in greeting, keeping up a humble appearance. "You're one of our two Peacekeeper tributes, if I recall."

"I am," Wystan confirms. "Although unlike Gossamer, my parents have been retired for a time."

"Do you think they're proud of you, being in the Fourth Quell?"

Wystan waves a hand, his smile falling. It's replaced by a neutral, almost trained expression—utterly professional and dignified. "It'd be foolish to assume," he recites. "Especially since I haven't even entered the arena yet."

He's met with a nod from Lola. She doesn't look like she understands entirely, though Knight thinks it's probably because she wanted to see some boasting from one of the tributes so far. "So you're in the career alliance, I hear!" Lola goes on, changing the subject. The crowd perks up at the mention, mutters breaking out. "I'm sure I'm not the only one wondering why you haven't stayed with Cetronia? Or why Cetronia isn't even part of that alliance?"

A dark look crosses Wystan's face. Knight can see the excitement spark in Lola's eyes, and it's now that he understands what she's been hanging out for. Lola wants _drama_. Lola doesn't want the tributes to stoke their own egos—she wants to add more fuel to the fire before the arena launch tomorrow morning.

Wystan crosses one leg over the other, looking a little miffed by the question. "It was a matter of opinion between Cetronia and I," he tells her. "We disagreed on our own personal ethics, and I simply allied myself with someone I deemed more honourable once the rift became apparent."

Mutters break out through the crowd again, this time concerning what the differing opinions could've been. Knight smirks at the sight of it all, at the way everyone hangs on Wystan's every word to try and delve deeper into the vague answers he gives.

By the time the interview ends Knight is more than confident that Cetronia's appeal has gone down a bit. They're for sure going to get all the sponsor goodies, even with Val's sabotage.

Wystan shakes Knight's hand as he comes backstage. He takes a slice from Val's tray and bites it with a smirk.

"We're killing it," Knight says. "At this rate we'll have control of the arena by the end of the first day."

"Providing our plan works," Wystan points out around his food. Val lets out a small snort of a laugh. "It all hinges on how close we all are when we launch."

"It'll work." Knight crosses his arms over his chest. "It has to."

The next District's tribute is welcomed out, Lola's voice yelling to the crowd, "Daphne Patheraph of District Three, everyone!"

The girl from Three doesn't look fourteen. Knight thinks she looks like a twelve-year-old, but her dress at least takes away from that fact and draws more attention to its design than its wearer. It's simple in design, not overtly outstanding and appearing rather modest; but the colour—or, rather, _colours_ —it showcases definitely catches everyone's eye. As Daphne moves along the stage, the fabric of her dress changes colours over and over. Reds, greens, blues, purples—each shift and step causes the fabric to shimmer like fish scales and change in hue.

It's impressive. Certainly not something Knight expected to see on such a plain girl.

She settles herself into the chair beside Lola's, already squeaking away as she looks out over the crowd. Knight wonders if she'll crack under the pressure.

"Oh my," Lola giggles amidst the squeaks. "Are you alright, Daphne?"

Daphne nods, her arm twitching under the grip of her other hand. "There's a lot of—" She squeaks. "—people."

"There's a neat little trick that Mr. Flickerman taught me when I first started out," Lola tells her. She reaches out a bit for Daphne's hair, pulling a thick lock out from behind the girl's ear and placing it in her peripheral. "Subtly block out the crowd so you can focus on the person in front of you—makes it feel a little more personal."

Daphne squeaks again, but it's quieter than her last one. She smiles up at Lola and thanks her.

"I hope it's not too much to ask," Lola goes on, "but they don't hurt, do they? The tics?"

Daphne shakes her head. "They usually only hurt if you force them to not happen. It's kind of like… Like getting a mosquito bite. The tic is like swatting the mosquito, but if you force yourself not to then the mosquito bite hurts more." She finishes the tangent with an affirmative squeak.

Lola nods and is quick to change the subject, almost eager to dive into Daphne's home life. "Tell us about your family, dear! I believe I've seen the name Petharaph somewhere before."

A nervous smile. Daphne shifts in her chair, and her dress fades from bright purple to wine red. "Well, my mom does—" Her arm flicks out. The dress's sleeve turns white, the rest of the fabric soon following. "—Does graphic art. She's a comic artist, I mean. Maybe some of her work made it to the Capitol?"

She looks out at the crowd then, almost as though directing it to everyone else. It proves to be a mistake, Knight thinks, as Daphne breaks into a fit of nervous squeaks and fidgets.

At least Lola doesn't draw attention to it. Instead, she asks, "So do you wanna be a comic artist like her?"

Daphne, to her best ability, shakes her head and stifles a squeak. He can see what she'd meant about it hurting—the pain flashes across her face with every tic she forces back down.

"I—I kinda want to study in the Capitol," Daphne chokes out. "I'm really good at chemistry, and it'd be cool to see what the Capitol has to offer with coding and technology that Three doesn't have."

"I see!" Lola leans forward, closer to Daphne. They continue to talk about Daphne's passion, and Knight can't help marvelling at how easily Daphne comes out of her shell once they do. Her squeaks even subside along with her anxiety, until finally the buzzer sounds off and she's scuttling offstage to the sound of applause.

A shame she's a District tribute. Even Knight has to agree that her shyness and excitement over chemistry will be endearing.

Knight sucks in a deep breath as the second threat of the night is called onstage. The Croissamer alliance hasn't exactly given the career group much peace of mind alongside their plan to eliminate Cetronia, and it seems Val and Wystan are more then aware of this as well.

"This ought to be interesting," Wystan mutters up to Knight. Knight hums in agreement, plucking another slice off of Val's tray. The taste of cherry is just a tad overwhelming for him.

Lola hypes up the crowd as she yells out, "Please welcome Nikostratos Farrington, representing District Three!" And suddenly half of the audience is out of their seats, whistling at the tall teen coming out from behind the curtains.

His suit is a glistening silver, accompanied by an equally silver tie and a black dress shirt beneath the dazzling jacket. As he moves under the lights of the stage Knight notes the dusting of silver even in his hair, almost highlighting the dyed blues, purples and greens of his locks. Even the closely shaven black hair beneath the undercut has glitter in it, and for a second Knight wonders if Gossamer—the almost literal golden boy—will be threatened by the subtle flair.

Once Croix is seated and his thick black glasses aren't completely obscuring his face, Knight even takes note of the black eyeliner and accompanying makeup that really helps his face glow and stand out compared to Lola's.

"Do you think the audience has been waiting for you, Croix?" Lola jokes. The look Croix shoots the crowd—so sly and smug, so _knowing_ —it makes Knight want to walk out there and punch him in the nose.

Croix takes his time with his interview, calmly talking about his aspirations for the future like he has little care in the world. When Lola asks him if he has anyone he wants to give a shout out to, Croix smiles sweetly and admits that not many people aside from his doting parents would care for one from him. When Lola asks what he'd hoped to be once he finished schooling, Croix chuckles lowly—a swoon from the crowd, the bastard—and lists off the many, many places he'd be eligible to work in.

When Lola asks him to narrow it down to one, he pretends to cave and admits to the crowd, "Ms. Nero's job is a nice goal to reach for."

Not only does he list off the same kind of job as Val, but Croix one ups her and lists the _best_ of the Gamemaker jobs. No one will care that Val has family in the Gamemaker business, nor that she wants to follow their footsteps. All the talk will be of Croix now, and it makes Knight's blood _boil_. Two Districts later, and the attention is gone from them. It'll all rest on Florence reminding everyone about her alliance, which Knight knows damn well she won't do. She'll gush over Lola too much to bother.

"So, Croix," Lola asks, "what is it most you're looking forward to in the Quell? I hear there's a lovely little farewell party in honour of the Capitol tributes and their partners after this."

Another low chuckle, and then Croix's looking over his shoulder and backstage. Knight sucks in a deep breath. He better not…

"In truth," Croix tells Lola, turning back around to face both her and the audience, "I'm rather excited to see what Gossamer and I can get up to in the arena."

And then the bastard has to audacity to wink just as the buzzer sounds off.

Croix knows he's won over the crowd for the first half of interviews. The smug smile on his face as he yanks a slice from Val's tray and strides past the careers is more than enough to confirm this. If Knight weren't wearing his gauntlets, he can say for sure he'd have painful, red half-moons on his palms from how tightly he clenches his fists by his side.

Six out of twenty-four down, and they're already losing the crowd.

* * *

 **Morganite Gardierre, 14, C-District 6**

The crowd really isn't focusing on their group as much as Knight said they would. Morganite chews her lip as she shifts back and forth on her feet, starting to become anxious in the line to the stage. At the rate they're going, they'll probably have to resort to pandering to sponsors at the dinner tonight.

Morganite wants to believe they're going to be okay. Val's hijacked some sponsorship goodies and Morganite negotiated a weapon to be launched into the arena with her, but everything happening tomorrow morning might not matter if no one backs them. Morganite peeks ahead at the next tribute set to go out onstage, almost too conscious of the theme her outfit entails. Adrianne's got a cute fish theme going on with her ensemble—bright blue mini dress made from a scale-like material, laced miko-style sleeves of the same colour, fishnet stockings… Her heels are even made of sturdy glass, which shocks Morganite to no end. Adrianne hasn't done a lot to stand out compared to the other careers, yet she's managed to snag such a great stylist team and interview outfit.

Morganite _has_ to do better than the next batch of tributes. The alliance is riding on it.

"Please welcome to the stage: Adrianne Evans of District Four!" Lola gestures to backstage with a grand sweep of her arms, and Adrianne wastes no time responding. The plucky girl walks onstage, lights shining down on her—and it's only now that Morganite can see the glitter dusted over her cheeks and the dampness to Adrianne's long, loose hair.

Despite the smile on her face, there's something tense about Adrianne's posture and movements. Morganite can't help wondering if it has something to do with the Capitol; Adrianne's alliance has hardly any Capitol tributes in it, after all. (The cyborg doesn't count, Morganite thinks. He's told everyone that he was born in Three. Compared to everyone else he doesn't count.)

"Thanks for having me, Lola," Adrianne greets sweetly. It's very different from the informal, lax Four girl Morganite's watched over the past few days. It _has_ to be all the Capitolites watching her. She can't have stage fright _now_!

"Pleasure's all mine, dear!" Lola giggles back at her. "I _love_ your dress, by the way. Four's aesthetic really suits you!"

A blush and a soft chuckle, and Adrianne's scratching the back of her neck. "I feel kinda like a fish out of water."

The audience chuckles at her pun, and from there Lola segueys them into a calm conversation about life in Four. Emphasis is put on Adrianne having never attended the Academy, and the question of why she volunteered comes up eventually.

Adrianne's reasoning?

"Couldn't send him to his death, y'know? I've had friends go in and—I mean, I'm happy Shell came back but… The Games take more than just limbs from you, and it leaves behind more than just scars."

She learns more things that can help in the arena: Adrianne is a spearfisher, which means she can hunt underwater and probably hold her breath for long periods of time; Adrianne can tell certain fish apart, which means she'll survive if she has to catch game; Adrianne was adopted by a man who runs a business that delivers Four products to the Capitol, and other places in Panem, which means the name Evans might be beloved by some families. Morganite isn't sure if Knight notices this—he's too busy watching lazily from the other side of the stage, muttering to Val every so often—so she makes a mental note to report everything after her interview is up.

"Is there anyone special back home, Adrianne?" Lola asks suddenly. Adrianne blinks, surprised by the question. "Anyone you'd want to spend your life with?"

There's another chuckle, but Adrianne looks more at peace with the answer she wants to give compared to her first question. "I don't have anyone yet but…" She scrunches up her face as she tries to find the right words. "But I wouldn't mind having kids. It's sorta funny. I hate girly things—I mean, this dress is the most over-the-top thing I've ever worn—but I really, _really_ like the idea of being a mom. It feels… Me?"

The buzzer goes off, but Lola is still very intrigued by the answer. She mutters something to Adrianne as the teen walks offstage, and then Morganite is holding her breath as Adrianne's partner is called out.

Ever since Val came running to Six's door earlier tonight, screaming that Sim wasn't to be targeted under any circumstances, Morganite's been wary. Val won't go into details about what he'd said exactly, but the words, "Whoever kills him will die," are ominous enough to warrant following. As far as Morganite knows the careers are the only ones aware of this sabotage. She has to wonder who will wind up taking the brunt of it, and just how they'll kick the bucket.

"Simoleon Serif!" Lola cheers. The anxious teen stumbles onstage, eyes wide in fear and hands clutched tightly to his chest. "Come over here, hon!"

Sim's dressed up in a flowery gauze shirt and grey slacks, looking every part the soft, harmonious aesthetic with his flower crown and necklaces around his throat. It's very different from his stressed, concerned appearance.

But he doesn't quite make it all the way onstage, to Lola's side. Sim looks out at the crowd, eyes blown wide and expression falling into that of despair, before he stumbles backwards and chokes on his own words. "I—I—"

"What's wrong, sweetie?" Lola waves him over again, rising from her chair to embrace him. "Come on!"

Sim shakes his head again. "Th—th—th—" He's just hiccuping and clawing at his shirt. Why is he panicking so much? Is this what happened in his private session, Morganite wonders? Is this why he got a one? "N—n—"

All colour drains from Sim's face. He stumbles back further, finally tripping over his own feet and crashing into the Five kids. Movement on the other side of the stage catches Morganite's eye—Adrianne, hurriedly ascending the stage and running past Lola as best as she can in her glass heels. Sim shoves away from Tooru and Quatra, almost crashing into the outer District kids further down the line as he scrambles back towards the stylist rooms. Adrianne is hopping along stage as she yanks off and throws away her shoes (one of them shatters when it lands onstage, adding fuel to the dramatic fire), calling after Sim.

Their mentor emerges from the other side of the stage to apologise to Lola.

"Might I ask about how he's doing?" Lola asks, half-ignoring the crowd. It's almost like she's forgotten the microphone on her dress's neckline is on, her whispers broadcast to the world. "I heard about the skyline incident, but I didn't think—"

And then Melvin is putting a hand to her chest, muffling the microphone. Despite the audience's gasp, Lola doesn't react negatively to it. More like she appreciates the reminder as she replaces his hand with her own.

They cut to a quick "commercial break" to clean the stage and make sure Sim is okay—unheard of in previous Games, as they've all been uninterrupted live broadcasts. The most popular broadcasting station in Panem is _HungerTV_ , for crying out loud! But the break commences, past Quell highlights played on the screen behind the stage, and Morganite is left standing awkwardly beside Finn's wheelchair as she looks up and down the line.

Cetronia and the Croissamer duo weren't the only ones Knight had concerns about. Hell, everyone in the group was concerned about the two girls conversing with each other Finn and Morganite, Octavia having left her place with a sneer to Gossamer in favour of Ham's spot. After the girls' demonstration on day one of training, no one's wanted to be around them. Even Cetronia had kept her distance after talking to them once, which Morganite can see as a brighter side to the dilemma. At least it's two strong outer tributes and a lone career, rather than a rival, modernised career group opposing them.

Octavia swirls the water in her glass with a scrunched up expression, hardly aware that the girl in front of them is listening intently to their conversation. Not that it's an important conversation—they seem to just be shooting the shit, rather than strategising like most would in their situation.

"This is a shitshow," Ham grumbles. "How the hell did Fern even put up with all this bullshit?"

"Mm," Octavia hums around her glass. She swallows a sip of water, then goes back to swishing it. "At this point something dramatic happening before the time runs out is looking mandatory."

"Maybe they'll let me punch Synthia onstage."

Octavia snorts with a small grin.

Lola comes back onstage and the stage lights up again, and suddenly things are back to normal. No drama, no word on Sim, no acknowledgement that there had even been an interruption. "Nothing is wrong," her face and posture proclaim.

"Up next is District Five," Lola announces, "and I think we can all admit we've been anxious to see this particular interview! Everyone give Quatra X a warm welcome!"

Quatra X—the spy Morganite still can't believe she'd been sitting next to, too hungover to notice at their reaping—emerges from backstage with a wave to the crowd and a reserved smile. She's dressed up in a strapless, orange sparkling dress that reaches her mid-thigh, the neckline a neat sweetheart style that works with her figure. Her boots—tall and black, heels not quite three inches but definitely not two—click against the floor while the diamond earrings and necklace she wears reflect light against her skin.

Morganite just stares, disinterested, at the girl. It's a pretty basic colour scheme, and orange is pretty tough to pull off on most people.

"Quatra X," Lola repeats, this time sounding somewhat floored. "I can't believe this Quell gave us the once-in-a-lifetime opportunity to let us peek at one of the most faceless families in Panem's history. You're basically a celebrity, dear."

"That's a bit much…" Quatra shifts in her chair.

"I think it's an understatement! Your family is so shrouded in mystery, and the fact that Panem can see you—beautiful, wonderful _you_!—is on par with witnessing a monster eclipse!" Lola starts to gush at Quatra, revising her statement. "No, this is more like Pando. Never in Panem—no, former North America's history has such a phenomenon occured again. Surely you can see why we're so excited now?"

The teen looks down at her tattooed wrist while her other hand reaches up to fiddle with her short hair. Morganite can't quite tell if she's embarrassed by the statement or exasperated, but Quatra definitely isn't reacting as joyfully as Lola had expected. The crowd is still applauding her though—like watching a dolphin swim around at a marine park in the most mundane way possible.

Attention moves away from the fact that, _oh my! A spy identity out in the open, so prolific!_ and instead shifts to Quatra's more subtle features. The fact that her hair looks like it'd been dyed ("It was dyed kinda chestnutty before I came back to the Capitol, and then blonde. I'm naturally blonde, though.), and the sun-kissed glow of her tanned skin ("It was really sunny where I was stationed. Actually, all the places I've been to are sunnier than most…"). When Lola points down to the tattoo Quatra glances at, the girl opens up a little and lifts her wrist.

The screen behind them lights up again, this time showing a zoomed in view of the tattoo from a nearby camera. Morganite doesn't get to hear much of the explanation for it—though she can assume the bracelet of fours are a play on her name—as behind her, almost radiating pure rage, comes a myriad of sounds from Octavia.

First is the glass in Octavia's hand shatters. That gets Tooru and Morganite to whirl around, while Finn glances lazily over at her. Then the heavy, livid breathing through her nose fills the stunned silence in the line. Morganite's never seen so much unadulterated rage in someone's expression before. Finally, despite the small cut on her finger and Ham's hurried attempts to get Octavia to find a crew member for a band-aid, Octavia growls out through her teeth, " _I was right_."

"Wh—" Ham's shaking her head in confusion. She whispers angrily, "Get the damn thing fixed! Who cares what she's doing!"

At least Octavia doesn't argue with her. The taller girl just storms down to the back of the line, cursing under her breath as some unfortunate crew member takes notice of her. She still has time before her interview, Morganite thinks. With any luck, whatever bothered her about Quatra won't be brought up thanks to Capitol medication working its magic.

She looks down at Finn—and suddenly Capitol meds don't feel like magic anymore. For all the good emergency surgery had done for him, shortening the recuperation period from six weeks to one, Finn is still hopeless without the full and proper use of both his legs. He won't be given a cane at the arena launch (Morganite checked as a hypothetical when she spoke to Malvolia, pitying Finn) and more than likely he'll be abandoned by his allies if the morphling doesn't make him fall forwards off his platform.

Barb had been very cruel about his position. "Serves him right," she'd said. "Finds its way back to you after you enable someone else."

Morganite is honestly scared to ask what Barb had meant.

Quatra's interview ends after some awkward attempts to goad information about the X family out of her, and she doesn't waste her time walking offstage. Morganite sucks in a deep breath as Tooru gets ready to be called out. She'll be next once he's done.

"We have her stunning District partner next, folks! A round of applause for Tooru Ikeda!" Lola waves for Tooru to come out, and she looks rather happy to see him emerge.

He's dressed in a simple and clean black suit, his tie standing out nicely against his white dress shirt. There seems to be a bit of confidence to his walk, his smile more surefire and certain. When he takes a seat next to Lola, it becomes very apparent why.

"I'm so proud of you, Tooru!" Lola cheers. "Doesn't he look handsome, everyone?"

The crowd applauds. Tooru's face lights up even brighter than before, and he thanks them all as loudly as he can.

"This is probably a bit personal for an interview," Lola adds, "but Larius told me about how you were struggling before the Parade."

Tooru's ears turn red, and he's quick to let his smile fall and look away. Lola doesn't let him wallow in shame for very long, though. She reaches out and takes on his hands hands with a big smile.

"My brother-in-law was right to call you an amazing and brave young man. Look at you—you're standing here now and telling the world that you are Tooru Ikeda. And I _know_ your family and friends are proud of you as well."

His interview is probably the most excited and open Morganite's seen him after that. He talks animatedly about his friend Nell and his dad, even going into detail about the little fabric puppets he'd made during training after he was advised to avoid combat training. Lola actually calls for one to be brought onstage, and Tooru is visibly shocked to see one of his _teru teru bōzu_ being preserved.

"When you hang them outside it's like a prayer for sunny weather," Tooru explains as other identical dolls, all made by him in training, are passed around through the audience. "Hanging them upside down does the opposite and you wind up asking for rain. I don't know the chant you're supposed to do with it—I mean, my Japanese isn't as good as my dad's—but I like to think they work if you put your heart into them anyway."

The crowd basically falls in love with him and his happiness, and when his interview ends Lola actually pauses before announcing Morganite.

She holds up the palm-sized, white cloth doll and smiles fondly at it. To the audience, she declares, "How about we hang this at the entrance of the training centre doors for good weather in the Games?"

It's Morganite's turn to take back attention for the career pack, and she feels confident enough to do so when Lola calls her out. She sucks in a deep breath to puff out her chest and struts onstage. The white pant suit would be striking enough by the colour alone, but Morganite's is special. Her father had sent in diamonds by the crate-load for her stylists to decorate the jacket in, leaving Morganite with more of a dazzling entrance than Quatra's earrings and necklace could hope to achieve. But she doesn't stop there. That won't be what gets attention back onto the pack. Morganite's jacket is wide open, the bare skin of her stomach and chest already feeling the heat of the overhead lights while her unmentionables are politely covered by a lacey, intricate black bra.

When she sits down next to Lola she kicks out one of her feet, slowly tucking it over her other leg to show off the strappy black heels she wears. Attention is most definitely on her now, she thinks as a few wolf whistles ring out. _I'm fourteen_ , she wants to scream at the adults watching her from the crowd. _And I'm not a District prostitute!_

"Talk about an entrance," Lola jokes, gesturing to Morganite's outfit. "That looks amazing, Morganite. Are those real diamonds?"

"They are," she declares. Morganite lifts an arm, letting the light refract off of the diamonds on her sleeve and onto Lola's face. "They're actually from my dad's business. He handles all sorts of gemstones and jewellery."

"Thus the name." Lola grins. "You wouldn't happen to wear your namesake, would you?"

Morganite shakes her head. She reaches for the finger her father's ring sits on, lifting it to the nearest camera. "No, but I wear his namesake as my token. Alexandrite's traditionally thought to bring good luck, and I think that'd be a lot better to take with me into the arena than a gem that opens the heart. Y'know?"

Lola laughs at the reasoning, nodding in agreement. "For sure, for sure," she says lightly. "So what do you get up to at home? You don't strike me as the kind of girl to sit around all day and do nothing."

 _I'll bet_ , she thinks as a chill hits her stomach. That's probably Lola attempting to be nice about insinuating that Morganite has the partygoer's life—which she does, of course. But it's still rude to assume based on her getup.

"My friends and I go to parties a lot," she boasts, hardly faltering. "I want to be an escort when I'm old enough, so I use them as a way to get my name out through personal meetings and word of mouth. Not the best business approach, but it still works."

"An escort! Any District you had your eye on?"

Morganite giggles. "With a name like mine, I think District One is the only fit for me."

"So what made you want to pursue the field?" Lola shuffles closer, suddenly intrigued. It's like she hadn't expected anything worthwhile from Morganite, or at the very least only expect some rebellious party girl talk. "It's very tough to get into when there's only ever twelve positions at a time."

She shrugs. "Mom used to be one. Jourisme—"

"Jourisme!" Lola lets out a squeal and leans back into her chair. "Oh, how could I not know of Jourisme? She had the most extravagant outfits during the reapings."

"Yeah! I know she wants me to be the whole proper young lady thing, but I'd _love_ to experience the kind of life she had before me. There's so much more to escorting than just picking out a random name and looking pretty for the camera." Morganite smiles—genuinely smiles—as she speaks. "I know it can be a lot of work, but I'm ready to do my best and tackle it all for the sake of becoming one."

The buzzer goes off not long after, and Morganite is feeling pretty confident about her role in the pack as she looks beyond Lola to see her allies' approving smiles. Morganite rises from her chair, casting a quick glance at the line waiting behind her—

And then she pauses, rooted to the spot as she sees Finn's tired gaze glued to his leg. How has no one realised that there isn't a ramp for him to wheel himself up? Didn't the crew provide something for him to use? Morganite's chest aches as she turns on her heel and moves back towards him.

"Morganite!" Lola calls. "You're supposed to go the other way—"

Morganite pushes between Ham and Finn and sets to work helping the teen up the three steps, grunting with every push and lift she has to do. Light hits Finn's face from the stage, and it doesn't take a genius to know that the smile he's wearing is forced as he sees Lola watching him.

Death game be damned, Morganite can't just leave him to suffer like this. He should have at least some dignity by the time that timer goes off. They can't just leave him to roll around pitifully on the floor while everyone else throws metaphorical peanuts at him.

She wheels him up to the chair, breaking away only to move it backwards and make room for him, and then she wheels Finn next to Lola and lets out a deep breath.

"You good?" she mutters, and only Lola and Finn seem to hear her. Finn nods slightly, smiling that awful smile as he turns to look at Lola.

Knight is all but disapproving when she joins them backstage. He glares at her, doesn't speak to her, and Morganite just sneers back. " _What_?" she snaps.

They don't fight, but things will definitely be tense come tomorrow morning. Morganite hasn't even entered the arena yet and she's already emotionally drained, practically going through the five stages of grief over the idea of and _actually_ being in the Games.

She's so tired.

Finn may be sluggish in order to keep his pain to a minimum, but he's handling his interview well. He looks nice and dapper in his blue tuxedo jacket and black bow tie, and if he'd been standing he'd have had people gushing over him. He talks about how he's a fan of Lola's, and Lola gives him a great big hug—something she claims to do with many of her fans, and Morganite's seen the photos to back up the claim.

"Does that mean you're a Games fan?" Lola asks as she pulls back from Finn. Finn laughs softly and shakes his head.

"No, I…" He blinks and sucks in a deep breath. "Couldn't stomach it. Don't like seeing… seeing all the death."

Lola clicks her tongue and lets out a coo. "I know," she reassures him. "It's necessary, but not everyone over here likes the blood either. Are you going to be okay tomorrow morning, though? Reluctance to fight and kill is one thing, but a broken leg…"

That hideous smile grows. Morganite wants to throw up—but keeps in it as the horrific reaping day flashbacks assault her.

"I'll be fine," Finn says sweetly, and it's the most blatant goddamn lie Morganite's ever heard. She wants to go back out and scream at him, tell him to stop being so _nice_ about it and just scream his stress out while he has the chance. He _can_ blame someone for this, he _can_ tell the Capitol to kiss his ass, he _can_ deliver the hard truth everyone in the crowd denies about his situation. But he doesn't. Finn just goes on to say, "I really hope I don't hold back Luxor and Cham."

His interview concludes without any mishaps, and this time a crew member comes out to wheel him offstage. Morganite's fists are shaking as she keeps them clenched at her sides. She doesn't know what she wants to do right now; yell, scream, cry, laugh? She's never experienced so much… so much _everything_ like this before. Consequences never bothered her before tonight, and she sure as hell was ready to discard Finn as a human meat shield if the careers didn't work out. Barb gave her all the tips and tricks, and Finn's been willing to play someone's hero since day one.

Now it's all a blur. Her diamond jacket isn't glamorous and stunning; it's heavy and pulling in too much heat, suffocating her as she walks instinctively over to Knight and Val again. When had she wandered away? She can't have tried to leave during Finn's interview, did she? There's supposed to be a dinner party after this—she can't just wander off like that without realising it and correcting herself.

Morganite may as well be on autopilot, though. She doesn't even stop herself as she grabs Knight's collar and drags his face to meet hers. She must be angry, she thinks, but her face doesn't tug in the right ways for it to happen. It's a mask of nothingness as her voice, equally empty, slips out of her throat with hushed tones.

"Target him in the bloodbath," Morganite says slowly, "and I fuck up your plan to take down Cetronia."

The amount of anger in Knight's eyes are confirmation enough that the message has been heard loud and clear. With only twelve more interviews to go, she's glad she said it sooner instead of later.

Chambray and Luxor better not abandon Finn in that bloodbath. There'll be hell to pay if they do.

* * *

 **And there's our chapter! Fun fact, morganite (the stone) is considered a protection from taking on others' suffering, which I found pretty ironic while writing Morganite's pov!**

 **QQ #24:** Whose interview stood out most to you?

 **We're only three chapters away from the Games! Gosh, this is getting exciting... Next time we come back, we'll be seeing the interviews via Adrianne and Jareth! Till then!**


	31. Interviews (II)

**I am... deceased...**

 **Anyway! This'll teach me for having the interviews in only two chapters, so next time it won't be as big a cluster (hopefully sdjnfkdsn). I hope you guys enjoy this half, though! QQ is at the bottom as usual!**

* * *

 **30 - Interviews (Part II)**

 **Adrianne Evans, 17, District 4**

No matter how hard Adrianne tries to calm him down, Sim won't stop panicking. The moment they arrive at their room he dives for the nearest corner, curling in on himself and sobbing uncontrollably. She's not sure what to do here—when he'd had his first breakdown in front of her, it'd been much easier to bring him down to earth and distract him. But with the fright that came with seeing the crowd, mixed with Lola's (televised) mention of a skyline incident, Sim proves to be almost inconsolable.

She's at a loss. Four days of bonding and learning about each other, all down the drain after his score was revealed and his turn for the interview arrived. Adrianne wants to know what's wrong and why Sim is so affected by all this—outside of the obvious—but she's just… stuck.

Adrianne doesn't force him to stay in the room as he crawls in the direction of his bedroom. She just calls after him, telling him, "I'm here for you, okay?"

She's not sure if Sim leaving his door ajar is a sign that he acknowledges her offer, but an optimistic part of her hopes it's his way of telling her he knows.

Adrianne meanders about for a while, flitting from the kitchen to grab a snack and back to the hall to watch all the doors. None of them are opening, no one coming through to check on them, and it makes her wonder just how much time has passed since they'd left the interviews. It can't have been more than half an hour, she reasons; Melvin would be here asking them if they're up to go to the dinner later tonight.

Eventually, with her half-eaten orange in hand, Adrianne walks over to the living area. She switches on the TV, mindful of the sleeves of her dress as she gets herself comfy. There really isn't much to be done except see if everyone else in their alliance does okay. She knows Daphne survived her interview, but what about Cole and Cyber? She can't just ignore them because Sim is panicking—no, Adrianne needs to pay them all equal attention. It was her decision to do her best to help them, so she needs to see it through.

There had apparently been a break between interviews while Adrianne and Sim were in the elevator. It's taken longer than she's expected for District Five and Six to wrap up their interviews, leaving the first of her remaining two allies to look out for next.

Lola, it seems, acts as though nothing is wrong tonight and that Sim had never even run off. Adrianne frowns at the TV as she chews on her orange. How the hell can the Capitol just ignore the trauma these kids are going through, even without the Games going on? There are obviously issues they all have, but they just bury their heads in the sand and pretend like nothing is happening.

Morganite wheels her District partner offstage once his interview concludes. It's a much more helpful side Adrianne's seen of her this week—Morganite's usually been doing things on her own and ignoring everyone else but the careers, after all. She can't help wondering what's changed lately. Adrianne isn't given much time to ponder on it all. District Seven is up next, Lola hardly giving even the audience time to breathe.

"Let's welcome Miss Phyllis Hamilton from District Seven, folks!" Lola whoops. The crowd applauds as Ham emerges from backstage, looking just as out of place as Adrianne had felt when she'd first stepped out in her dress.

From what she can see, Ham's dress is toga-inspired and white; the bodice is asymmetrical, a single strap over her shoulder that's held in place by a silver leaf pin. The light material continues on, giving her an almost cape-like appearance behind her, while Ham strides to her chair in white flats held in place by ankle straps. As she takes a seat next to Lola, gelled hair pushed out of her face the way Jack would style his during meetings, Adrianne takes note of the way her silver-sequined belt glimmers under the lights.

It doesn't look like something the burly girl would wear every day. Then again, Adrianne never wears something like her fish dress every day either.

"Now," Lola starts, looking Ham up and down, "I've been told you have a nickname you prefer to go by?"

Ham nods. "Ham," she says, averting her gaze from Lola's face. Adrianne watches her carefully. Why does she do that? "From the Hamilton part."

"I see." Lola nods sagely. She shuffles in her seat, inching closer to the smaller girl. "And if I recall, you're not the first Hamilton we've had onstage before."

It's hard to miss the way Ham goes tense all of a sudden. Adrianne hears Lola mention the name Fern, but all her attention is on Ham as she clenches her fists above her knees and struggles to keep a straight face. Adrianne will have to ask Melvin about who Lola means later, if that's the reaction Ham gives after a simple drop of a name.

"Wasn't he in the same Games as—"

"I have people at home I wanna dedicate time to," Ham cuts in. Her knuckles are pale, her brow creasing more and more as she tries not to let her semi-calm expression fall. "Family. F—Friends."

Adrianne gives a small, approving shake of her fist to the TV. Way to shut her up, Ham! Take control of that interview!

"Oh?" Lola leans even closer. She doesn't look all that unhappy that she'd been interrupted. "Tell me about them! You must have a lot, to want to dedicate all your interview to them!"

That's a jab if Adrianne ever heard one. Maybe Lola really is upset over being interrupted.

Ham chews her lip and looks down at her hands. She relaxes them once she sees how hard they're shaking in her lap. "My dad… He's like the boss of one of the woodcutter shifts," she starts. "He actually wanted to get me into Maggie's shift if I wasn't reaped."

"Oh, smart man!" Lola nods along with her declaration. The crowd agrees, though not as vehemently. "Any siblings?"

"Thr—" Ham chokes on her own words. A pained look crosses her face, like her whole world is just barely being held together. Damn, was the Fern guy a sibling of hers? "Two. Two brothers."

"What're they like?"

"Ewan is, uh… He's the eldest. He runs a carpentry store with his wife—Willow. She's actually about four months pregnant. Gave me her old engagement ring to take with me." Ham runs a hand over one of her fingers. There isn't a ring there from what Adrianne can see. Was it taken off earlier? "Ash—he's… Older by two years. He's really good at mending clothes and stuff. Ewan gets him to do the more delicate stuff for furniture."

"So your father, your sister-in-law, and your two brothers," Lola lists. "No mother?"

Ham shakes her head. "She's gone," she says simply. It looks as though the topic of her mother is easier to talk about than Fern. "Big C. Happens sometimes with how much we're outdoors in Seven."

Lola nods along, understanding. "Anyone else you want to mention? Friends? A special someone?"

That must mean Ham's time is almost up. The girl seems to mull over the question, considering her answers; before Lola asks if she wants to conclude the interview, Ham looks straight into the nearest camera and holds her ground.

"Myrtle," she says, voice strong and confident. "I'd _love_ to go get something to eat with you when this is all over."

Adrianne gawks at the screen. There's a million questions racing through her mind—who's Myrtle? What does she mean by 'get something to eat'? Is Myrtle from Seven?—but they don't get answered as Ham is applauded offstage. The Capitol is lapping up her statement, whistling and cheering.

Lola goes so far as to dub her the resident "warrior of love". Adrianne doesn't miss the disgusted expression on Ham's face just as she disappears offstage.

She leans forward in her seat as she prepares for the next tribute to be introduced. Adrianne desperately hopes he goes okay on his own now, especially in front of so many people. From what she's heard even small groups of people have a hard time seeing Cyber as more than his sturdier form—how badly will the whole nation react?

Not too badly, she finds out. Cyber has a few people cheering for him, calling him a surefire victor as he walks out onstage to Lola's, "Cyber Tronovsky, everyone!"

He's dressed up in a metallic red, long-sleeved shirt that's accompanied by a simple pair of black slacks and leather shoes. Compared to most of the tributes so far, Adrianne finds he looks a lot more casual and uncomplicated. Then again, she thinks, with an appearance like his what more can you do to spruce it up?

Despite his size the chair lets out a loud creak under his weight. Lola has the audacity to chuckle at the sound. "Bit heavy, are you?"

Cyber's glowing cyan eyes flicker up to Lola's face. "Most of my body is made from heavy materials," he says simply. Adrianne lets out a short breath of relief. He's not nervous, at least. "It's a little sturdier too."

"Oh?" Lola reaches out to touch Cyber's hair. She runs her fingers over the fine blue and blonde locks, visibly paling at the feel of them. Adrianne knows the feeling of his hair well—it's hard to believe Cyber's dad had done so well to make it realistic with such materials. "How much of you is… organic?"

Cyber takes a moment to consider the question. He looks down at himself, his usual wide-eyed expression weighing his answer. "Most of my internal organs are the same," he decides. "My heart was bad in my old body, so this one is artificial. My brain is the same too. It's got some chips in it, though—so my body functions and my organs don't reject it."

"You're like a walking example of machine and flesh co-existing!" Lola marvels. Cyber looks as though he's going to say something—disagree, Adrianne wonders?—but Lola cuts him off fairly quickly. "So who built the body for you?"

"My dad," Cyber answers automatically. He pauses for a second, as though waiting for Lola to ask a follow-up question, but she remains curiously silent. "He made it to save my life. I was dying. The body functions like a normal one—eating and sleeping and stuff—but I can't feel things anymore."

A hand flies to Lola's ear. She's half-listening as Cyber goes on with his explanation. "When Dad was killed, I was put to sleep for a while. I don't know what happened, but now I can't feel anything. I think it makes Madam Maddie sad that I can't—"

And then the screen cuts to black.

Adrianne jumps out of her seat with a start. What happened? Where'd they go? She clicks button after button on the remote, switching between channels, but nothing is coming up when she returns to the interview broadcast.

"No," she mutters, her voice raising with every breath, "no, no, no, _no, NO_!"

To her surprise (and relief) Sim comes crawling out from his room with a sniff. "Adrianne?" he chokes. He's been crying, but she can't bring herself to turn and run to his side, to calm him. Too much is happening at once. What the hell is going on onstage?

"The feed cut off," she grunts. Adrianne finally gives up trying to restore the image onscreen, instead opting to throw the remote onto the floor. It snaps in half, but the TV stays on. The blank screen just stares back at her like a foreboding void. "I can't— Cyber was just—"

She collapses onto the couch again just as sound returns. There's a grainy voice, definitely Lola's saying something about giving someone a hand, before the vision flickers back on and Adrianne sees Cyber disappear on the other side of the stage.

"His interview got cut off," Adrianne gasps. "Does the station normally…?"

"No," Sim whispers. He's right behind her now, peeking over the edge of the couch. His tear-stained face is puffy and red, but he looks as though he's not concerned over his own problem anymore. Sim is just as worried about what this means as Adrianne. "Our signals were perfected to resist even the worst of weather or interruptions—if the manual connection was severed, it would've automatically switched to a wireless broadcast."

Adrianne shakes her head. She collapses back onto the couch with a heavy sigh. "Why the hell did it cut off?"

They must not know what happened back on the stage. Lola just calls out the next name on the list of tributes with a large smile on her face. "Chambray Hemingway from District Eight! Come on out, sweetie!"

Chambray has quite possible the most grand dress of them all, Adrianne thinks. The first thing that comes to mind is a wedding dress—extravagant and floor-length—with every step towards Lola the girl takes. There isn't just a skirt with a layer of sheer white fabric over the top, there's little diamonds scattered about the sheer cover like stars in a sky; there's even a belt of diamonds that separate the bodice and skirt entirely, and the soft material of the bodice holds a delicate sweetheart neckline. On her face is silver makeup—lipstick and sequins along her cheekbones. It's just… stunning.

And just as Chambray reaches her chair, she stops and does a twirl on the spot. The skirt of her dress lights up, emphasising the shine of the diamonds on the sheer coating. Even Sim gasps at the sight.

"Wow…" Lola marvels. She actually gets up and walks a circle around Chambray, jaw practically on the floor. "I think it's safe to say you've stolen the show."

"Thank you," Chambray says earnestly, and Adrianne cringes once the girl's rasp is thrown in her face. She'd forgotten that Chambray has one like Cole.

"Well at least you won't have to worry if your interview isn't as stellar as the others!" Lola giggles and sinks back into her chair. There's a knowing look on her face, like she's got some bombshell that'll prove her remark wrong. Adrianne is apprehensive just watching the expression settle on Lola's face. "I was actually hoping to ask you about something, if you don't mind."

Chambray looks Lola up and down once. "Of course," she says smoothly. "That's what the interview's for, isn't it?"

The audience laughs. Lola flushes red, looking out of the corner of her eye to the crowd in a panic. Adrianne just sinks into the couch and reaches a hand behind her, letting it fall on Sim's reassuringly.

"The girls have really been grilling her since we left," she says proudly. Sim lets out a soft huff of a laugh. He doesn't move his hand, which lifts some of the weight off of Adrianne's shoulders.

"I doubt our audience may know it, but I believe you used to work at the Embarcadero factory?" At the puzzled expression on Chambray's face, Lola explains, "I do research on tributes every year to make sure they have something they can talk about in their interviews. Start a discussion. I saw your name—and your brother's name—on the list of former employees in the factory."

Chambray actually stutters when she says, "Y—Yeah, I did. Now I work at the Argentaurum factory."

A ripple of murmurs comes from the crowd, and suddenly Sim's tensing up. He sinks behind the couch, removing the TV from his sight; his hand stays under Adrianne's, though.

"I know what she's going to ask," Sim mutters.

"What—"

"Did you know anyone," Lola cuts in, "who died in the fire?"

There are many things that Adrianne notices in the seconds that follow. The first is that Lola is very pleased by her question, eyes glued to Chambray's face the entire time. The second is that the crowd, previously quiet, lets out the loudest of gasps and pitying sounds. The third, final thing Adrianne notices is how so many expressions flit across Chambray's face in the span of two seconds.

The confusion, the pondering, the perseverance. Furrowed brows. The recognition, the realisation, the fear. Jaw dropping ever so slowly. The horror, the regret, the trauma.

Chambray is just starting to cry as she sits there, unable to look away from Lola; her expression doesn't change and she doesn't hiccup with each tear that falls, but she's definitely not in the interview anymore. Adrianne stares at the TV in horror. Chambray has, if she has to guess, been thrown back in time to the events of her old workplace.

"Wh…" Adrianne jumps to her feet, suddenly livid. She knows that Chambray and Octavia were given threat scores, that Melvin wants them far from the girls in the Games. But to bring up what had to have been repressed memories on live TV like this is… "What the hell is wrong with you!? Why would you even ask that!?"

Sim mumbles something from behind the couch. Adrianne whirls around on her feet, suddenly concerned; he's not struggling again, is he?

With a bit more force, Sim says, "You mustn't watch a lot of Games. She does it every year—picks two or three tributes to make big drama focus for viewers. Not every Hunger Games has tributes rivalling publicly enough to last until the Games start."

She can hear Lola onscreen calling for Chambray to come back, acting alarmed at whatever reaction the girl must've had. Adrianne can't bring herself to look, even as the sound of Luxor Aricunai coming onstage reaches her ears.

"I'm Luxor," he rushes, voice booming, "you all know who I am, and I'm _appalled_ at how heartless you sick pieces of trash are! You make me sick!" he adds as his voice starts to vanish offstage.

And then Lola is calling after Luxor as he, in turn, calls after Chambray.

District Eight's interviews are probably more of a mess than their own. Adrianne sucks in a deep breath and drops onto the couch again.

"I'm glad someone said it," she tries to joke. It falls flatter than Chambray's interview had.

"I just want the night to be over," Sim chokes out, and it's only now that she notices he's crying again. Adrianne covers her face with her hands and silently scorns herself. Stupid, stupid, stupid! How could she just ignore such an important thing like that! "I want it all to be over."

"Think we could sneak into the training centre? Swim in the pool?"

He sniffs. "Pro'lly not."

She hums. They've cut to another commercial break, from the sounds of it. There's no doubt Luxor's scene left a lot of time to fill. "Anything you wanna do?"

There's only silence for an agonising few seconds. Adrianne wants to think he's taking his time thinking of what he wants, but soon she realises he just doesn't want to answer. She pushes herself up on her arms and peeks over the edge of the couch. Sim's just curled up into a ball on the floor, glassy eyes watching the wall with intense concentration.

Had she not moved closer to check on him, she would've missed it: "I want my brother."

Adrianne doesn't know what to do. She just sucks in a deep breath and faceplants the cushion closest to her. The TV announces something about a cereal brand sponsored by the Games, but she isn't listening wholeheartedly. Everything feels like one giant mess and she just doesn't know _what to do_. She's never known anyone to react the way Sim does, and she herself doesn't even struggle so much with whatever he's going through. Adrianne just feels useless.

She rolls onto her side and heaves out a sigh, doing her best not to make it sound like it's directed at Sim. She's not upset with him—she's upset with herself. She promised to help him out no matter what and yet here she is, twiddling her thumbs while he curls in on himself on the floor.

Adrianne thinks to apologise, to let him know it's not his fault she's frustrated, but she never gets the chance to. She hears him stand up, shuddering out a steeling breath, before he hobbles down the hall and back to the bedroom. The door doesn't close behind him—in fact, he doesn't even stay in there. Sim comes back out, dragging something at his feet, and comes to a nervous halt at Adrianne's feet. She looks down at him, at the large duvet clenched in his hands. Sim looks like he wants to say something but for the remainder of the break he simply chews his lip and shuffles on his feet.

As though it'll make anything better, Adrianne pushes herself back into the very frame of the couch and leaves enough space for Sim to sit down.

An ad for toothpaste appears onscreen. Sim scoots onto the couch and snuggles next to Adrianne, blanket wrapped tightly around him. Despite being taller than her, he resigns himself to being spooned as they watch the TV in silence. His breathing calms down at least, a sign that maybe tonight won't be a total loss for the both of them.

Lola returns again after five minutes of ads. She has with her the girl from Nine, who is already onstage when the broadcast resumes, and for a moment Adrianne debates turning off the TV before the interviews even end. The two of them are too tired to even leave the couch, let alone the room for dinner, and Lola's voice in their ears doesn't make things easier. It's like she's sapping the life out of them with her words alone, her hair turning more and more purple with every ounce of emotional stability she steps on.

"I have with me Oryza Belfast from District Nine," Lola announces, "and we're going to be doing something special for this interview."

Adrianne ignores the explanation that Lola will have a translator relaying everything Bel says to her, instead focusing on the small girl with as much energy as she can muster. Her dress is pretty—knee-length and short-sleeved, a lovely green that compliments her eyes. The darker green tie she wears with it just adds to her natural look, as do the headband of golden leaves and black ankle boots. Bel looks adorable. She wishes she'd gone to the Nine duo and asked to collaborate when she had the chance.

First Lola asks about her home life, and the trainer next to Bel—wasn't she the one from the edible plants station?—reports, "Bel used to work cleaning out silos. During the weekdays she'd go to school with her brother."

Bel's hands move around more, and the trainer adds, "When she had free time she'd climb the trees near her house a lot."

"How quaint!" Lola claps her hands together. "Now, were you born deaf or…?"

To Lola's surprise, Bel lets out a mispronounced, "No," and resumes signing.

"Bel had an illness when she was younger," the trainer translates. She pauses as Bel continues to explain. "It took her hearing when she was about a year old."

"And you read lips rather well, I see," Lola adds. "Is it easier to sign?"

Bel nods. "She says it's uncomfortable using long sentences," the trainer explains. The crowd lets out a cooing sound, sympathising with the girl. They must really like her. "One or two words every so often is fine, but not full sentences."

"How does your relationship with your allies fare with this?" Lola looks past Bel—most likely over at Church, her Capitol partner. He's the only one who stays by her side, Adrianne notes. Like herself and Sim, but no one else wants anything to do with them.

Bel's hands move in a flurry, a big smile on her face as she looks between the trainer and Lola.

"Church has been very supportive of her," the trainer says, and Adrianne notes the pride in her voice when she says this. "They've gotten to know each other very well and have even made plans for when the Games are over—"

"Plans!" Lola yells. Even Bel jumps, mostly at the look on Lola's face and the way she jumps out of her seat. "Share, dear! What are you going to do?"

Bel hesitates, looks back over her shoulder at Church. Time ticks by, the short silence leaving Adrianne to wonder if the signal—or even just the sound—has cut out again. But the timer goes off, and then Bel is being told by the trainer that they have to leave the stage.

Up next is her Capitol partner, and Adrianne can't help wondering if it'll be a mess like the last two. She wouldn't be surprised if something goes wrong with Church's time in the spotlight.

"Let's welcome her partner, Epsilon Church!" Lola shouts, and the man of the hour walks out with his head held high. Much like some of the other boys he'd dressed simply—red tux and pants with a black dress shirt and tie. He pays no mind to Lola's excited bouncing, probably unfazed by her attitude by now.

When he sits down, he's met with an immediate, "What plans have you and Bel made?"

Church's brow quirks. Maybe he's not entirely unfazed, Adrianne wonders.

"I plan to move to Nine with Bel and live in the Victors' Village," he replies cooly. "My sister will join us."

Lola nods. "Your… _hospitalised_ sister?"

His jaw shifts and his lips tug downwards. Adrianne just presses her face into the cushion again as she waits for this to turn into another mess.

"Yes," Church growls out. "Sarah."

"How is she doing these days, dear? You both dropped out of the news after the accident."

He must be collecting himself, judging by the pause. "No improvement. She's… She's still comatose."

There's a pain in his voice that Adrianne—and Sim—picks up on. A sort of regret, like he's done the worst possible thing but doesn't know how to fix it.

"He blames himself," Sim mumbles. Adrianne hums in agreement. This is the face of a boy whose mistakes have put an immense weight on his shoulders and left him with nowhere to go.

Church clears his throat while the crowd lets out a chorus of "aww". It doesn't take him too long to continue on with his tangent. "There's every chance that she may not wake up with the money used so far to fund her treatment. Before it runs out, I mean. That's why," Church announces, his voice raised so all can hear, "I ask that any funds put towards my sponsorship instead be transferred to Sarah, which should hopefully support her until she recovers. I've spoken with the Head Gamemaker and she has allowed this."

The crowd begins to stir, chattering and gasping and wondering why Church would sabotage himself like this. Only the other tributes would know why and how he'd achieve such a feat.

"I just want to talk with my sister again," Church adds, and the crack in his voice destroys Adrianne. This is killing him, she thinks. Even Lola can see that—she asks if he wants his interview to end early, and Church just sucks in a deep breath and shakes his head. He continues his interview, talking about less… troubling topics. It feels like it drags on forever before the timer goes off, and Adrianne only just now realises that she'd been holding her breath during his interview.

She reaches over Sim for the remote, still broken and in need of a fix; it still works, she finds, as the TV flickers off at the press of a button.

"Tomorrow," she sighs. Sim hums once, flat and tired.

"Are you going to the dinner?"

She shakes her head. "Nah. I broke my shoes, anyway."

Adrianne gets a chuckle out of Sim at that. He curls even more into himself and shakes his head. "I can't believe you threw your shoes so hard."

"They were pinching my toes. How the hell was I s'posed to catch up with you in them?"

"That's fair," he laughs.

Adrianne lets out a relieved breath. At least he's doing a little better now. "I think I'm just gonna stay right here," she decides. And Sim hums again, satisfied with the decision. The world won't end if they don't watch the last six interviews.

* * *

 **Jareth Vilna, 14, District 11**

Sticking it out on his own is proving to be a rather good choice by this point. If it's not other tributes starting beef with each other, it's tributes with so much baggage that they may as well have brought the emotional kitchen sink with them to the Games.

Jareth wants to go back to his room. He doesn't want to go in front of all these cameras, talk to a woman who will most likely try to air his dirty laundry for all of Panem to see. It's bad enough that he's treated like dirt in his own District—his own _home_ —for what his parents did with the purest of intentions. He doesn't need everyone else to hate him too.

It's not just the Capitol Jareth is struggling with, either. All the tributes are so volatile and sneaky, and the ones who aren't are just straight up _helpless_. Barley had high hopes that Jareth and Avita would ally and go under the radar, but Avita's made it very clear that " _gross outer Districts_ " are beyond her care. She'd been very pissed at the idea of even representing Eleven. What hope was there that she'd bother to care about Jareth?

He crosses his arms in front of him and surveys the rest of the line. Only six to go, and then it's a mess of a dinner next.

The kids from Ten are getting ready to head out, but one of them keeps glancing over his shoulder at the duo directly behind. Jareth can't help sneering every time he does, the way those smug-ass eyes size the smaller duo up.

After sixteen— _sixteen_ —inspections, the golden-haired teen says smoothly, "Enjoying yourself so far?"

"Piss off." Jareth holds himself tighter, making it obvious that he doesn't want Gossamer to talk to him. Gossamer's brows rise, entertained by the reaction, before he moves his gaze to Avita. Avita just stares back, unfazed, and then finally Gossamer turns back around and focuses on Octavia.

"You should be more respectful to the Capitolites," Avita mumbles next to Jareth. Jareth snorts. Look who's saying that.

He shakes his head and sighs, "Why even bother?" He doesn't want to go into detail about how the Capitol is the scummiest of the scum, because Avita will _obviously_ try to retaliate and defend her status as a Capitolite. She's too proud not to.

She doesn't get much of a chance to continue the conversation anyway, the interviews picking up again as Church leaves the stage with an applause seeing him off. Now is about the time people start to lose interest in other tributes, Jareth recalls; it'll be easy to stay under the radar if it remains true for this year's interviews.

"Let's give a warm welcome to Octavia Faye from District Ten!" Lola yells to the crowd. Avita snaps to attention, gaze locking onto the girl in front of her as Octavia walks onstage.

She wears a long, sparkling black dress that has a slit along its leg reaching so high that Jareth wonders how her unmentionables aren't visible. There's only one sleeve holding it up, peasant-styled and thin, while the neckline of her bodice sits in a heart shape over her chest. She's made almost as tall as Gossamer by the black platform heels she wears with this.

As soon as Octavia sits down, Lola rubs her hands greedily and smiles at her. "So much to ask, so little time."

Despite the fact that Octavia is smiling, even Jareth can see that she wants nothing more to run offstage and avoid whatever Lola has planned.

Instead of voicing it, though, she says through her teeth, "Oh?"

"Well, there's your score," Lola lists, "and then your alliance, and that's not even touching your home life!"

And the look of wanting to leave intensifies threefold. Octavia shifts in her seat uncomfortably while Lola debates what to start with.

"Let's start with your home life," Lola decides. God, if Octavia's deepest darkest secrets are about to be revealed on live TV, Jareth is going to run before Lola can do his. "Anyone special back in Ten waiting for you?"

Two key expressions pass Octavia's face: Realisation and disgust. Clearly the question isn't her cup of tea.

"Not anymore," Octavia drawls. The smile on her face is dropping quicker than Jareth can keep track of it. "I only care about seeing my dad and my brother again."

"Not anymore?"

"I dumped him." She seems to reconsider saying this, but ultimately adds, "On the reaping day."

The crowd lets out a loud, sympathetic sound. Jareth isn't sure if it's directed at Octavia or the ex-boyfriend back in Ten.

"I'm so sorry," Lola says, and for a moment she sounds genuinely sorry.

Octavia barely misses a beat. "I'm not."

And then the crowd is _howling_.

Whatever gossip Lola was going to bring up on Octavia, it's lost now. She's more interested in finding out all about Octavia's love life, whether or not she'll ever "find love" again. Octavia handles it like a champ, in Jareth's opinion.

"You never know where you'll find them!" Lola insists towards the end of the interview. "Why don't we wrap up with a little something to let the world know what you're into?"

Octavia shrugs. She considers her answer carefully, bringing a hand up to stroke at her chin, before finally she seems satisfied with what she'll say.

"I like someone who's headstrong and sensitive," Octavia lists. "Maybe a little funny. Definitely reliable and someone I can trust to have my back. I don't really _need_ protecting, but someone who's willing to protect me is a huge plus. Oh!" Octavia suddenly clicks her fingers. "Someone smaller, too. I like being the tall one."

Jareth just stares at her, unable to comprehend how quickly her interview has turned into a dating profile. Somewhere in the crowd a pair of teenagers scream that they love Octavia—("Are they the Head Gamemaker's daughters?" Lola says as she squints out at the crowd.)—before finally the lady of the hour walks offstage.

In front of him, Gossamer lets out a low rumble of a chuckle. "Making me work for it," Gossamer mutters with a smile. Jareth watches him carefully. That smile isn't innocent by any means. It reminds him of the look Heather would give him before she got him in trouble with Constance.

Unwillingly, Jareth inches back away from Gossamer.

"Let's say hello to her Capitol partner!" Lola announces once Octavia is offstage. "Gossamer Wormwood!"

Gossamer swaggers out. He commands absolute attention with his spun gold suit, accentuated by his dark grey dress shirt. Even his face shines gold with the eyeliner applied, hooped earrings bouncing against his jaw where his hair cannot.

Gossamer makes himself comfortable before Lola so much as even asks him anything, almost as though she's catering to his pace rather than her own. Jareth has to wonder if it's because Gossamer is one of the Peacekeeper kids. It has to be.

"Good evening, Lola," Gossamer says with a smile. He looks utterly relaxed, like he doesn't have a care in the world. Smug asshole probably doesn't. "Before we start, can I just say something quickly?"

"Go ahead." Lola nods, eager to hear his piece.

Gossamer smiles, then leans back—he's looking backstage, to where Octavia had left. "Octavia, sweetie," he drawls, "just say you're attracted to Ham and get it over with. Croix and I don't mind competition."

If the crowd was riled before, they're absolutely losing their minds now. Jareth just scowls at the spectacle, at the way Gossamer revels in the attention and drama in front of him. He's genuinely enjoying himself right now.

"Juicy!" Lola squeals. "Does this mean the ' _special meaning_ ' behind Croix's parting words are true?"

"Of course." Gossamer nods, still looking completely relaxed. "Unlike a certain other duo, we'd prefer to be open about our relationship."

Another holler from the crowd. Jareth wants to throw himself off the nearest table.

"But I'm sure you'll all see us in the arena together," Gossamer adds, quick to change the subject. "For now let's focus on me, yes?"

And so they do. Gossamer is asked about his aspirations for the future, what he wants to be if not a Peacekeeper. He has this smirk on his face when he says, "I wouldn't mind your job. How's the pay?"

Despite it being a joke, Jareth can't help but feel the tension that comes with it. Lola clams up, laughing it off but looking Gossamer dead in the eyes— _not in your life_ , her gaze says—while the golden boy smirks and silently promises to live up to it.

"All jokes aside," Gossamer goes on, pulling attention back to himself again, "I'm probably best suited for Peacekeeping. It's in my blood, after all. I'm genre-savvy enough to recognise writing tropes in media, but heaven forbid if I try pursue it."

"Not your forte?"

"Not my interest." He raises his brows innocently. "I rather prefer to analyse the characters and plot threads. Makes it much easier to appreciate it all."

"How do you think you'll fare against the other tributes?" Lola asks. His interview must be coming to a close.

Gossamer shrugs. "Do I see the others as a threat?" he rephrases. With a scrunched up expression, he concedes, "Monkeys and typewriters, I suppose."

And he's seen offstage to the howling laughter of the crowd. Jareth wants to punch the guy in the face—though that's probably everyone's sole desire right now too. He can't stand how smug Gossamer is and how effortless he makes his interview look. Like being an asshole is easy somehow.

(It probably is. That must be why Heather is one all the time.)

The night is almost over, though. Just two more Districts and then Jareth can have some apple pie again. Meredith had promised him a whole dish of it.

"Come on out, Avita Clements-McMillan!" Lola calls. Avita, who's been silent the whole time, begins her entrance with a dazzling smile. It really helps paint a friendly image with her layered, light purple dress.

Compared to the last few interviews, Avita is less of a mess and more of a typical Capitol kid.

"Lovely to see you here, Avita," Lola says. She points up at the girl's afro, at the poodle hair clip pinned in place. "And that's quite an adorable clip!"

"Thank you!" Avita reaches up and pokes it with a smile. Jareth is still surprised it passed regulations, but he's not fussed over it. It's not like a hair clip could kill anyone, much less a novelty poodle one.

Lola moves quickly onto Avita's rather prominent mothers, Florentina McMillan and Varinia Clements, and the interview becomes relatively peaceful. "Your mother—Flor—I believe she's currently competing in a dog show? How do you think she'll go?"

"Mom's gonna blow them away," Avita boasts. "Her dye jobs are always perfect and the styles she gives the poodles look almost natural. We Clements-McMillans are winners," she adds proudly.

"Varinia believes so as well! It was hard to miss her cheering you on at the reaping." Lola giggles. "I can see the tabloids now: 'My Baby, The Newest Victor'."

Avita laughs and blushes. Jareth furrows his brow at the exchange. So one of her mothers is in dog shows, and the other is in… News? Something to do with news. With the way Avita acts—all spoiled and uppity—he can really see both sides of those worlds shine through her personality.

"I can't help but be a little worried about your score, though," Lola goes on. "It's not the most confident kind of result."

When Avita flushes again, it's not for pride. She's embarrassed that Lola's begun ragging on her now. "W—Well… Scores don't always define a winner. L—Look at my mentor!"

Jareth _really_ wants to fling himself off a table now. She went a whole week ignoring Barley and thinking he was irrelevant, to suddenly praising him? _She called him a fluke_!

"That's true. Maybe you'll get lucky, eh?" Lola winks at her. Avita is as red as a tomato as her interview ends, her lips pushed out in a pout as she glances at the crowd. Jareth lets out a long, tired breath. This night won't end soon enough.

Lola's reassuring the crowd that she's sure everyone will do their best, probably trying to placate the ripples of doubt beginning to show. It's not really going to work all that well, Jareth thinks, when she's the one planting the doubt in their minds.

She moves on, glancing backstage at Jareth, and throws her arms wildly about as she shouts, "Jareth Vilna, come on out!"

He feels tense in this outfit. The tight grey pants, the white shirt with the ruffled collar, the brown leather jacket that sits heavily on his shoulders. Even the brown leather boots feel foreign to him, like something made for an entirely different being.

But he perseveres and walks to the chair, and suddenly he's faced with a sea of bored and expectant gazes.

"Snazzy," Lola coos. "It fits, I think."

He disagrees.

"Thanks," he says shortly.

"Now, speaking of _parents_ ," Lola starts, "I hear yours were rather infamous for—"

Jareth heaves out a loud, angry sigh that cuts Lola off abruptly. She stares wide-eyed at him. "They tried to remove my name from the reaping roster so I'd never be in danger of going into the Games," he growls. "It's not my fault and they only had the best of intentions. Not that it worked out," he mutters darkly.

Lola glances once out to the crowd, then back to Jareth. "So you've come to terms with—?"

"God, _no_. I never will—they were executed right in front of me, Lola." Jareth sneers at her. "No one gets over that. I'm _suffering_ from the fact. That's why I can talk about it so easily."

Genuine confusion flickers across Lola's face. Oh, so she didn't look into Constance? "What do you mean?"

Jareth can't stop the smile that breaks out across his face. He can _ruin_ Constance—get back at her for the abuse she put him through! Nothing can stop him!

And so he _lets it out_.

"They put me in a community centre after they killed my parents," he says. "My life has been _hell_. You know Barley? My mentor? He was there too. Why do you think he has a stutter?"

Lola gawks at him.

"Constance does nothing but abuse and belittle us and use us to feed her own desires. My name was in the bowl fifty-nine times this year. _Fifty-nine_! I'm _fourteen_ , Lola! Do you know how much of the grains we get from that I eat? Barely a handful a week. There's twenty-six of us, and Constance makes us all claim that number of tessera each year, but we get _none of it_. If I hadn't been reaped, I would've literally gotten nothing for God knows how long because of something I didn't even do."

He points at his face. "See this scab on my cheek? _She_ did this. She's ruined all our lives and we're so exhausted and bitter that no one wants us. More for her, right?"

Jareth should've been holding a microphone. He could've dropped it and watched the crowd stare back at him in horror. Now they have no excuse for not knowing how bad the Districts can be. Despite all the pride he feels, though, there's something in his chest that nags at him. A sort of bittersweet realisation.

"If Barley hadn't shown up for a visit," Jareth adds, softer this time, "I don't think I'd have lived to see fifteen."

That sends the crowd over the edge. Jareth watches as they all gasp in horror and murmur amongst themselves, vocally condoning such " _horrific living conditions for children"_ and the extortion of tessera in such a way. For a moment Jareth is proud again, but the truth behind his parting words weighs heavily on him. He really would've died before he turned fifteen if Barley hadn't met him. If Barley hadn't been so kind.

Jareth leaves the stage when the timer goes off, more numb than he thought possible. He's not too fond of his newfound realisation of his mortality.

At least he isn't left to dwell on the information for long. Lola, eager to fix the grim atmosphere, calls out the next tribute with a booming voice to rival Caesar Flickerman's.

"Let's welcome Florence Fontana, shall we?"

When Florence bounces onstage, it's in a long skirt decorated with brown and black and white streaks and feathers; her sleeves are less _sleeves_ and more _wings_ , accompanied by a raised hood with the little owl horns. At least she got the aesthetic she wanted, Jareth thinks offhandedly.

Florence is basically hyperventilating as she tackles Lola into a hug. Lola's hands fly above her head, her eyes bulging wide while she tries to figure out just what is going on right now. The tributes around Jareth snicker. After the drama she's trudged up tonight, catching her off guard is a welcome retaliation. (Even if Florence only means well.)

Lola can't even get a single word in to introduce the girl. Florence just bounces on the spot, squealing, as she babbles about how much she loves Lola.

"This is a dream come true!" Florence gushes. "You here—I hugged you—You're so pretty! And taller than I realised. Are you sure you're five-seven? No, no, it's not important. This is so much _fun_! First I get to see Luxor and now I get to see you and then next I get to see the President at our dinner! AND I get to see an owl in the arena! Do you like owls? They're my favourite—my stylists even made me a dress like one." And then she hoots, mimicking the specific brand of owl she's apparently dressed as. "Normally I'd wear the hat my mom made me, but they said I couldn't wear it out here and it was really terrible! But I like the dress and the hood, and it really matches Cole's outfit too!"

Lola, finally extracting herself from Florence, just smiles uncomfortably at the girl. Jareth isn't the only one enjoying her discomfort. Behind him Gossamer chuckles, "Wimp."

"That's… nice…" Lola tries to push Florence towards her chair, but Florence just latches onto her arm and hugs her again.

Florence looks like she's on cloud nine. "Thanks, Mom!"

The audience gasps—and so do the tributes and Lola. "Oh. My. God," Croix gasps loudly. Beside him, Gossamer is struggling to keep his laughter quiet.

"W—What?" Lola says helplessly. Florence immediately jumps off her, face turning red.

"I—I mean—!" Florence sinks into her chair, much to Lola's relief, but the shame is obvious to even a blind person. "You're not really my mom but I like to pretend what life would be like if you were."

"What about your actual mother?" Lola tries. Florence's face stays red, her gaze dropping to the floor quicker than one of her tangents.

"...'ot 're…"

"Person?"

"She's _not here_ anymore." Florence sniffs. Is she going to cry, Jareth wonders? "She got sick and she wasn't able to get better."

You could cut the tension in the air with a knife. She's been all over the place emotionally tonight, but Jareth thinks her interview might end on the same low note if Lola doesn't tread carefully. She's from the Capitol, so maybe Lola will put in some effort to cheer her up.

"Maybe…" Lola doesn't know where to look. "Maybe instead of a _mom_ , I can be a—"

Florence's whole face lights up and even Jareth can feel the emotional whiplash that strikes the room. "A sister!" Florence cheers. "You can be a big sister! You and me and Ember can hang out and go to the aviary and do sister stuff!"

Lola grimaces into a smile. " _Absolutely_!"

"Can we bring Cole, too?" Florence is back to bouncing on her chair, the wing-sleeves flapping about (to everyone's amusement). "He's never seen an owl before or what a canary looks like up close."

"First you'll both have to come out of the arena together," Lola points out. "Think you can do that?"

Florence nods so hard that her hood drops off her head.

The timer goes off. Lola visibly relaxes as Florence is told that it's Cole's turn to come onstage. Florence doesn't look upset by the order, instead beckoning Cole out before Lola can even call his name. The pair exchange a hug onstage before Florence skips off, leaving Lola to awkwardly introduce Cole as he gets comfy in the chair.

"C—Cole Aish, everyone!"

He's a tiny thing, tinier than Jareth, and his suit doesn't make him look any older or mature. The black blazer and pants, with its birdcage pattern, leaves the white shirt and bright yellow vest to stand out like a target on Cole's chest. At least the yellow bow tie he's wearing makes him look a little dapper.

"Hello, Cole," Lola greats softly. Cole waves back to her, mumbling a hello back. "You and Florence seem to be very close."

"She's an owl," Cole says simply. "I'm a canary."

"So it would seem! What did a canary like you get up to back home, then?"

Cole sits up straight, like he's doing his best to look like he's a reliable, hard worker. "I go into the mines and smell the air!" he announces. "Nirav and Hartson say I'm really good at it, but Mrs. Wyland gets into arguments with Hartson over it."

A nod from Lola. "Do you like Nirav and Hartson?"

"Yeah! They're really nice and they don't bully me. Did you know Nirav can juggle?"

She chuckles and shakes her head. Lola relaxes into her seat, as though Cole's innocent observation is a sign that his interview won't be a disaster. Considering how much Lola's wanted to start drama in the interviews, Jareth almost wishes Cole will go out with a bang.

"So Cole," Lola goes on. "You're an orphan, right?" Cole nods. "Have you ever wanted parents?"

Cole shrugs. "Parents sound nice," he muses. "They buy you things and tuck you in at night and cook nice meals. I'm probably too old for some of the people who want kids, though."

"I wouldn't say _that_." Lola snaps her fingers, and then someone is shuffling out from backstage. They bump into Jareth as he scrambles to step aside, and he just barely sees one of the words on the paper they carry: Hartson.

When the paper is in Lola's hands, she passes it to Cole. "You'll be under your registered name for the rest of the Games," she says, "but you've got a parent waiting back home for you."

Cole's eyes stare at the paper. They go up, then down, then up again. Jareth watches him read the worlds to himself, lips moving with each sentence, before finally he looks up at Lola with wide, stunned eyes.

"Hartson adopted me?"

Lola nods. The largest of smiles breaks out on Cole's face, and damn it all, it warms Jareth's heart to see. This is what he wishes he could be, deep down inside. Happy to be free of the system, to be with someone who would love him like his own parents did.

Cole jumps to his feet and holds the form out for the crowd to see. "Hartson adopted me!" he shouts. "I have a dad!"

Seems like the tributes aren't the only ones (mostly) warmed by the reaction. The audience is cheering for Cole, congratulating him. Even the girls who'd screamed for Octavia are cheering for Cole. It's kind of sweet, in a " _forgot-we're-going-to-die-tomorrow_ " way.

"Does this mean I'm Cole Flare now?" Cole asks Lola.

She shrugs, very clearly pleased with his reaction. "That's up to you and your dad, kiddo. Are you okay with being Cole Aish until you get home, though?"

Cole nods, his head whipping up and down like it's about to fly off.

"Then best of luck tomorrow, Cole!" Lola tells him. The timer goes off, and Cole's running offstage as best he can with his limp to reunite with Florence. Jareth watches him crash into the girl with a grin, his paperwork shoved into her face while she congratulates him.

When Jareth looks back out at Lola, she's already addressing the crowd and bidding them a good night.

"Our tributes have a lovely dinner with President Snow tonight!" she announces. "Drive safe, all of you, and remember to gamble responsibly!"

Jareth heaves a sigh and sinks into the background of the small crowd backstage. Interviews are over, but who knows what kind of mess is waiting at dinner?

* * *

 **As usual the DramaTM is front and centre lmao. Here's our QQ!**

 **QQ #25:** Whose interview from this batch stood out most to you? If you can't pick, then what in general stood out?

 **I'll see you guys next time! We'll be at the dinner with Celestia, from the POVs of Avita, Finn and Daphne!**


	32. Dinner and a Show

**Look at me, sneaking this upload during my class time. Lmao I'm lucky I'm in a publishing course and it's manuscript time. But here we are, dinner chapter! After this it's the night before, and then we're at the bloodbath. SCARY SCARY!**

* * *

 **31 - Dinner and a Show**

 **Avita Clements-McMillan, 15, C-District 11**

Everything sucks.

Avita really can't describe it any other way. She's meeting the President, she's looking cute as hell, and her interview wasn't a disaster—but it still _sucks_. She has no allies. No one wants to talk to her, and even with her relatively peaceful standing so far she's gone under the radar. _Jareth_ got more attention than her after their interviews. (Not that he got a lot, she reasons. They're still the underdogs right now.)

She pouts as they both sit at the table, waiting patiently for the President to take her seat. Across from them are the Twelve tributes, to their immediate rights the Nine tributes. Even when having dinner with the President Avita is held more than an arm's length away. This is why outer Districts are the worst, she thinks. No one ever wants to go near them.

Well, after today she supposes there's more reasons for them to suck. Jareth hadn't painted a pretty picture when he talked about his foster carer or whatever. And the remark he'd made at the end of it all—it's not hard to believe he wouldn't have lived to see fifteen like Avita has in the Capitol.

She's a little surprised when she mutters to him during their wait, "I hope Constance gets what she deserves."

Jareth doesn't reply immediately. He doesn't even look at her. Avita can't blame him. She's really taken the support she _did_ have from her team for granted. She'd give anything for help now that she's well and truly on her own just hours before the bloodbath. When he does reply, though, it's a curt, "Pissing her off is enough for me."

She huffs out a single laugh. She really can't fault the reply, considering she'd be fine with just that if she was in his situation.

"Sorry about your parents," she adds. Jareth grunts, definitely closing himself off from her. She persists. "My moms would do the same if it were me."

"Doubt it," Jareth snorts. He fiddles with one of the forks by his plate. "One of them was pretty excited you got reaped."

"She has faith in me."

"Good for you."

Maybe she can fix this and save both their skins. Jareth doesn't have allies either, and while the two aren't exactly on the best of terms Avita figures two heads are better than one. And who knows? Maybe the Capitol will cheer on District partners more than the duos playing up their "relationships". The whole relationship thing has been so dumb, too. Avita used to love seeing star crossed lovers or even just the strong bonds formed between tributes in such a short amount of time. But now it all feels so fake. Like Croix and Gossamer are doing it out of convenience. Like Ham and Octavia are being misinterpreted for something they're not. Like everything she's grown up to know about the Games is a big, fat lie.

She swallows her pride and glances over at Jareth again. He picks at the bread roll they'd all been given while the appetisers are prepared, munching idly away.

"Do you…" She hesitates—so unlike her, so unlike a child of the Capitol. "Do you want to ally?"

Avita is doing her best here, learning from her mistake of brushing over everyone in the worse Districts, and all she gets is a scoff that speaks levels of how well her attempt is going with Jareth.

"You must be _desperate_ ," Jareth mutters. Avita sneers at him. He's not wrong, but she won't give him the satisfaction of admitting it.

" _No_ ," she says, laying the appalled tone into her voice thickly. She doesn't get much of a chance to argue further on it all, the President taking her seat just as their appetisers arrive. Avita looks down at the garden salad for a few seconds, wondering if Jareth had ever enjoyed something as simple as this under Constance's care, before finally she begins to dig in.

For the most part, President Snow keeps her attention on the careers and inner District tributes. Avita can't blame her. They're more interesting, more appealing. If it weren't for the absence of District Four's tributes, District Five probably would've gone without any attention at all.

She keeps catching a few others' eyes whenever she glances up from her meal. On occasion she'll meet Florence's stare, the pink-haired girl most likely staring at her afro and hair clip. Sometimes she'll meet Octavia's eye, the older girl giving her once-overs when she isn't glaring holes into Gossamer's form beside her. And then, of course, Gossamer. He doesn't keep his attention fleeting like the other two, winking at Avita whenever they make eye contact and making silent promises of a later conversation. He must have heard her try to ally with Jareth. Why else would he make attempts to get her attention?

At least it's easy to finish the rest of the courses from there. Dessert is portable, a serving of ice cream on waffle cones as a treat for the tributes who'd never grown up to try it. Avita licks at the peppermint ice cream as she wanders over towards a secluded corner of the room. It feels a bit easier to handle her lack of allies when she doesn't have others near her to talk about their own. Besides, some of the alliances look like they're having problems without her getting involved.

For one thing, it's more than obvious that Octavia is avoiding Ham now. She shies away from Ham whenever they head to the snack table or refill their punch glasses, leaving the smaller teen silently fuming at Gossamer from across the room. Considering how their interviews went, Avita can't blame either of them. Ham basically asked a girl back home out on a date, and then Gossamer outed Octavia's maybe-attraction on live TV. How can it _not_ be awkward?

And that alliance with Luxor in the middle of it? That can't be more obviously strained than it is already. Chambray's eyes are red-rimmed and baggy, makeup streaking her cheeks, and Luxor is glaring daggers at everyone who tries come near. Avita's so used to seeing Chambray hold everyone at arm's length, even her own allies, that it's a shock to find her allowing Luxor to hold her by the waist comfortingly, to lean his head on her own whenever she sniffles and wipes at her eyes. Whatever had happened between her interview and now, it's made them much, _much_ more reliant on each other. The only thing keeping them from being the alliance with their shit together is Finn. Finn, who stares blankly at nothing like he has nothing to live for and no reason to care. He looks over at Chambray and Luxor every so often, pained expression replacing his blank mask for a fraction of a second. His gaze would then fall to his leg, stuck in its cast, while Chambray turns away from him in an attempt to mask her guilty features.

When she sees Luxor reach up and move some of Chambray's fringe out of her eyes, Avita averts her gaze and tries to dismiss the duo entirely. They've gone from awkward to affectionate very quickly, even if they're doing it platonically. But PDA is PDA, and Avita will probably never be comfortable experiencing, let alone seeing, it.

She doesn't notice Gossamer saddle up to her side, at least not until he leans down and whispers, "Hello," directly into her ear. Avita almost spills her punch, but recovers quickly enough to return his greeting.

"Isn't it a bit lonesome on your own?" Gossamer asks sweetly. Like he hadn't just heard her desperate attempt at getting Jareth on her side at dinner.

"A little," she admits. She sips at her punch and averts her gaze, almost ashamed of the topic now. It's just so hard to admit it to someone of her calibre, to someone who probably knows she can do better than she has. "Not a lot of talkative people here."

Gossamer hums in agreement. He downs the rest of his punch and then moves to refill the glass. "Little cliques all around," he agrees. "Mixing and matching their opinions and motivations. Very hard to find backup alliances."

She looks him up and down. Why would he need a backup alliance?

"That," he continues, "and it's making Croix and I realise just how in over our heads we might be. But don't tell anyone I actually admitted that," he adds, a hidden threat to his tone despite his wink.

"So you wanted to find people to help you," she guesses, phrasing it as more a statement than a question. It's the only logical conclusion, right?

And Gossamer nods, to her relief. He takes a sip of his refilled drink before going on, "It's hard for us to trust the District tributes, given everything that's happened. And I noticed you talking about alliances to your partner and just assumed…"

Avita doesn't say anything for a time. She simply watches him, too elated by the offer of help for words.

"I understand if you—" Gossamer doesn't get to finish his reassurance. Avita cuts him off, almost spilling her punch with how much she's bouncing on the spot.

"I'll do it." She holds a hand out, beaming at him. "I can't do a lot, but I'll do my best regardless."

He takes her hand and gives it a firm shake. "Excellent. Now, this may be abrupt, but what do you know about the Games in the modern era?"

She blinks. Haven't the Games been the same for a hundred years?

Gossamer hums, looking sympathetic. "I know that face. Croix was surprised, too, when I told him. Remember how I stayed behind to talk with the Head Gamemaker?" Avita nods slowly. "I took advantage of my sabotage to get information about the Games and to pick who launches where. Turns out we've been much more lenient than the government wants us to know."

"Lenient?"

Gossamer nods. "Tributes who set off the explosives on their pedestals don't die," he whispers, like it's the biggest secret in the world. It probably is, Avita realises with a start. "They get removed before the bloodbath and taken back home—disqualified. Too much of a mental health risk. Don't you find it weird that, in the Eighty-Fifth Games, Selkie Yanovich simply 'blew up' before the timer even ended?"

"I thought his name was Marshall?" Avita definitely remembers a Yanovich, but not a Selkie. But she knows what Gossamer refers to. "And what about the explosions?"

"Special effects," he says quickly. "They delay the broadcast for a minute and add whatever's needed to fill the blanks. And," he adds, "Marshall was her deadname."

Avita flushes. She feels bad for deadnaming someone who'd gone through so much. She hopes Selkie is alright, now that she knows she was taken from the arena before it started. But now that leaves a burning question in the forefront of her mind, her unused sabotage coming up in the silence between them.

"What can I do to help?"

* * *

 **Daphne Petharaph, 14, District 3**

She remembers making homemade ice cream when she was nine. It had been like a miniature chemistry project, just more hands-on than her other ones. It had tasted overwhelmingly like salt, the only error she'd made that had put Kamela off of the stuff. She almost misses the taste now that she has proper ice cream in her hands, the sweetness more than she'd expected from a simple ball of frozen milk.

She still likes it. Daphne smiles with each lick, enjoying herself for the first time since being reaped. She'd had fun with Adrianne and her alliance, enjoyed learning about Cyber and finding out how he ticks, but none of it felt normal in the slightest. This, at least, she can attribute to a happy memory and feel more at home.

The only thing making this a little less safe is the absence of Adrianne and Sim, but she doesn't mind it all that much. She has Cole and Cyber with her, eating their own ice creams and conversing quietly. Cole is utterly amazed by the fact that Cyber is mostly synthetic; Daphne won't deny that she is as well. It's just hard to focus on with the revelation he'd made at the interview, which she has no doubt Adrianne will keep an extra eye on him because of.

She chews her lip, careful to mind her braces, and says, "You sure you're okay?"

Cyber nows. He licks at his ice cream, making sure none of it spills. "My emotional capabilities are nonexistent now," he explains. "You don't need to worry. Besides, it's been four years now. Even if I could feel anything I'd be long past the point of grieving by now."

"It's just—" Daphne frowns. Talking with SIRIUS felt easier than this, and SIRIUS doesn't even have a personality. Maybe she's thinking about Cyber too much as a machine rather than a person. Maybe she's thinking he's more human than he is machine now. Maybe she's not regarding him with just the right amount of both aspects.

Cole, at least, finishes her sentence. "I'd be sad for a long time if Hart— If my dad died."

"Yes," Cyber agrees. "I know I loved him a lot. Maybe I would still be sad."

"B—But your sister is okay, right?" Daphne tries. "You said you didn't know where she wound up."

Cyber nods. The movement is so robotic—and Daphne has to kick herself for forgetting so soon that he's a _cyborg_. Of _course_ his movements are robotic! "As far as I know she wasn't sold to the Capitol like I was. Madam Maddie has been keeping an eye open since I told her about my family."

That's a relief. Daphne's glad to know that the person who bought him— _God, bought him_ —is treating him well. She doesn't think she can handle knowing how far his mistreatment for his condition has gone.

One thing she finds hasn't changed from what he would be, had he had his emotions still, is his curiosity. Cyber takes the time to learn about his allies, genuinely interested in finding out everything about them. "Why do you have a limp, Cole?" Cyber asks, derailing the conversation about himself.

Cole leans off of the leg in question. His ice cream is falling apart in his hands, but he doesn't seem to mind. "I hurt my ankle a few years ago," Cole explains. "Mrs. Wyland didn't have enough medicine for it, though."

Cyber hums. "No infection," he observes. "The leg would have been amputated if that happened. You did adequately with what you had."

"Thanks!" Cole beams at Cyber. Daphne can't help the small giggle she lets out at the sight. As stressful as this all is, she's glad they all at least get along.

Her eyes stray from their conversation to the other groups of tributes, where tensions seem a little higher than she'd expected them to be by this point. She's not sure how but everything between the other alliances has gotten worse since the first day. Daphne's not stupid, though. Her gaze falls over to Gossamer, by the punch table with Avita. A lot of what's happened has been because of him.

There's been drama amidst the tension, and Gossamer at the centre of most of it. It makes her apprehensive around him, scared to do something wrong in case his chaotic eye turns to her. She doesn't think she'd survive his plans. She's smart, but Daphne's far from capable of physically fighting back against him.

She watches, silent, as the night goes on. Avita and Gossamer remain by the punch table, the missing member of the (assumed) trio hovering near Luxor's alliance. Croix keeps his eyes on Chambray like he's playing the part of the scout, and as far as Daphne knows he is. Synthia's made absolutely certain that Croix can coast off of his analytical skills and acting. Daphne knows to stay far away from him by this point.

But Luxor doesn't, she finds. Even after Croix had, most likely, caused Finn to break his leg, Luxor doesn't entirely let down his guard. His focus is on Gossamer, which is reasonable, but Daphne can't help worrying about what might happen if he doesn't broaden his suspicions.

Cyber picks up on her stare, turning to look in Croix's direction. "He's assessing them," Cyber tells her. Daphne hums in agreement.

"I've got a bad feeling," is all she adds.

And what an astute feeling it turns out to be. Not long after Croix takes off his glasses is when all hell breaks loose at the otherwise calm dinner party. He carts around his drink and a plate of small pudding cups, appearing as though he wants to offer them up to the duo in the corner. Daphne watches him, watches the way his foot hooks behind his ankle as he comes within an arm's reach of Luxor and Chambray.

She winces as the tray goes flying, pudding landing all over Chambray's dress and upper body while punch spills onto Luxor's tux. At first the duo scream in surprise, stumbling backwards as Croix, putting his glasses back on his face hurriedly shouts apologies. They all but fall on deaf ears as Chambray's face contorts into that of unbridled rage, her hand flying to the lace choker now covered in pink and brown pudding.

" _THIS WAS MY MOTHER'S_!" she shrieks. Croix doesn't even have time to avoid the harsh backhand across his cheek, tumbling to the floor in genuine surprise. Luxor is quick to lift Chambray off her feet by wrapping his arms around her and backing away from Croix.

"He's not worth it," Luxor keeps insisting. But Chambray is calling him every name under the sun as she starts tearing up again.

By the time they flee the scene, all of the potential sponsors among the higher ups in the Capitol are wary of their retreating forms. Daphne blanches, suddenly no longer wanting her ice cream. She can't believe Croix's done this—well, she can, but she doesn't _like_ knowing he's done it intentionally. Croix pulls himself back to his feet, hiding his smile, and scurries over to Gossamer's side with the most pitiful expression he can muster.

"That was no accident," Cyber says. No one else seems to want to say it aloud. "The way he fell was too slow to be anything but a practiced trip."

"He did it on purpose?" Cole whispers, horrified. "That's terrible!"

"Croix's terrible," Daphne decides. It hurts to say, regarding someone so negatively for probably the first time in her life, but it's a fact by this point. She's bunked with him for the last week and listened to each conversation Synthia had with him. Saying anything else would be denial.

It's not the end of the dramatic night, though. Once Croix is comfortably by Gossamer's side, slowly letting the guilt slip into his usual relaxed expression, another tribute in white storms up to him. Though smaller than Chambray, Ham is definitely much more powerful. She flips Croix around to face her with barely any effort, dragging the six-foot demiboy down to her five-four level. The smugness is still there, but even Daphne can see the fear hiding behind the facade.

Ham's not an easy target. Croix knows it well by now.

Unlike Chambray, though, Ham doesn't harm Croix. No, Daphne watches her drag him close enough to whisper in his ear, the threat she throws at him unheard by those around them.

She wishes Zinnia were here. She can read lips better than Daphne can, and at least then she'd know if the threat delivered to Croix will affect her in any way. Almost as soon as Ham drags him down to her level, she lets him go again and walks away with a much, much more refined calm to her posture. Daphne can't help the small smile she feels lift her cheeks.

Croix definitely deserved that scare.

* * *

 **Finnegan Styx, 17, District 6**

Tonight's been a mess. Well. Not just tonight. But tonight's probably been one of the bigger messes of this week.

Finn can't help wishing it's all been a dream. That he's still unconscious onstage, being carted off to the train. That the people in the Games with him aren't actually real. He doesn't think he can handle fighting them. He knows for a fact he can't outrun any of them. Maybe limp away like the kid from Twelve does, but he isn't as used to redistributing his weight to ease the pain in his leg.

He won't be surprised if, tonight, he's kicked out of his alliance. He'd do the same in Luxor and Cham's place.

He wonders what his family thinks back home. Lux is probably crying, not used to seeing her brother so downtrodden and broken. Calic is most likely shaking his head and scolding Finn from afar—his foolish foster son, whom he'd named after his own father, is throwing his life away for nothing. Gia must be doing her best to calm Lux, unable to watch her step-son fade away in front of her.

Maybe Noah is screaming at him through the screen that he'd told him so. That he really would have been lucky to get a seven if he'd ran. It's pretty ironic to think about now.

He smiles bitterly. It's really all he can do, stuck in his wheelchair in the garden outside the dining hall.

"—it go!" comes a grunt from across the fountain. Finn leans back in his wheelchair, curious. Is that Luxor's voice? "He's not _worth it_!"

A pained cry is all he gets in reply. Finn wheels himself around the fountain, taking care not to roll himself into the water. He can see a white gown and blond hair, but he doesn't fully register Chambray's form until Luxor sits her down on the edge of the fountain.

"Listen, Calico!" Luxor tries. Finn's brows shoot up to his hairline. "You're gonna burn yourself out! _Breathe_ , for crying out loud."

And Chambray just nods. Like Luxor hadn't just called her by the wrong name, like Luxor hadn't just referred to her as her twin.

"I'm _breathing_ ," Chambray hisses. She swats Luxor's hands away and reaches desperately up for her choker. "That _bastard_ ruined Cham's—"

"Cham?"

Two pairs of eyes lock onto Finn's form. He doesn't even realise he'd spoken until they're watching him with a deer in the headlights expression, somehow shocked to find him witnessing their conversation. He doesn't understand why they look so scared to see him, to know he's heard them—at least not immediately.

When Chambray scrunches up her face and looks to Luxor, Finn slowly puts the pieces together. Luxor's expression falls and his shoulders slump, and softly he hears the words, "Sorry, Calico," muttered to the blond.

"Ah." Finn says it flatly. He should be more shocked than he actually he is. It's probably the painkillers dulling his senses and his emotional capabilities. It's probably just Finn being too tired by this point to care. But he doesn't react how he knows he would've a week ago. "So you're…"

Cham— No, Calico? Calico physically turns away from Finn, unclasping the choker around his neck and carefully dunking it into the fountain. A heavy sigh comes from Luxor, and he's pacing over to Finn with his hands held up in surrender.

"I'm sorry, Finn," Luxor whispers. "I only just found out tonight, but—"

"Should've volunteered," Calico growls as he swipes damp pudding off the choker. "Couldn't trust anyone to help. Stylists are probably reporting me as we speak. Not that it matters, since I already outed _myself_."

"Callie, no," Luxor tries. Calico doesn't listen. The tears just start falling again, like they had when he'd been onstage, as he furiously starts flicking water onto the stains along his dress.

"Can't believe I forgot them," Calico mutters, and it's so pained and remorseful. Finn can't believe he's hearing such a tone from a normally stoic and shy face. But then, he thinks, that had all been an act as Chambray, hadn't it? Maybe this is the real Calico. Maybe Calico is just as big a mess as the rest of them. "They were my _friends_. They let me forget them. What's the _point_ of wanting me to make _friends_ if I can't _remember them all_?"

"Breathe, Callie," Luxor tries again, softer this time. Calico sucks in a deep breath through his teeth and holds it for a few seconds. Careful sapphire eyes look back to Finn for a second before Luxor is turning back to Calico, his attention entirely on the distressed boy. "I'm sure they did it for a good reason."

Finn doesn't really give Calico the time he needs to blow up at Luxor. Even then, he looks as though he's struggling to process the emotions going through him in this moment. "What's going on?"

A sharp inhale from Calico. He doesn't look up from his choker as he lets out a wheezy breath. "I broke the law," Calico spits, "because I was too choked up to volunteer for my sister."

He blinks slowly. He understands the intentions. He understands the sentiment behind it. He understands because, though legally, he'd done the same for Lux. But Finn can't understand why Calico is so upset right now. Why he's bothered to keep up the illusion and just not tell someone sooner.

It's gotta be the medicine, he thinks as he slumps into the back of his wheelchair. Normally he's a little more perceptive than this.

"Okay…" he slurs. No one says anything for a time. Luxor is busy trying to calm Calico— _it's actually Calico, Calico Hemingway, someone none of them expected to meet in their lives once Chambray's name was announced_ —while the blond gives up cleaning his choker. Most of the pudding's been washed out, but there's an ugly pink stain already forming in the lace trimming. He figures now might as well be a good time to confirm what their plan for tomorrow is. He probably won't get a chance to again until they're all killing each other. "Do you guys… Do you wanna go without me tomorrow?"

Luxor's head snaps up so fast that Finn feels dizzy for him. "What?"

"You'll die," Calico says matter-of-factly. "Don't be a moron."

Well. Now he definitely knows it's not Chambray. Not that he knows whether or not she calls people morons.

"You guys are gonna get held back," Finn points out. Now Calico looks over at him, expression blank. There is no shyness. This is, from what Finn can gather, the boy's default expression. So lifeless compared to the mask he'd donned of his sister. "I don't mind."

A snort. "Well I do," Calico snarls at him. "Through some fucked up stroke of luck, you guys are rubbing off on me. I don't _do_ affection and caring. It's foreign and uncomfortable. As far as I'm concerned Cham is my only reason to continue living. But," he adds, sounding almost spiteful now, "here I am, caring. Even though everything I do in this Quell is for her sake, I know she'd be upset if I didn't look out for my friends in the arena."

He mumbles something else, two names that Finn doesn't quite catch. But Luxor does, and he puts a hand on Calico's shoulder as he sits down beside him.

"Delaine and Atlas would be proud," Luxor says soothingly. Calico sniffs and scrunches up his face. Wow, he really doesn't handle emotions well. "I wish I'd gotten to meet them."

Calico looks absolutely exhausted as he deadpans, "Last time I saw them, they were half-broken and bleeding out on the ground. The way your leg broke kinda reminds me of it."

Oh, he's talking to Finn. Finn huffs out a tired laugh, his hand wandering to the edge of his cast. "Must have really scared you," he says, doing his best to sound apologetic.

"It looked painful. Kinda gross."

"Yeah, tends to happen when your nerves are cleft in twain by your own tibia. Wasn't as pearly white as I expected, either."

Calico winces at that. "Ah. The big one."

The bigger leg bone, he means, and it seems only Luxor doesn't understand the exchange. Thankfully, though, he doesn't press to be included. He just waits out the conversation, listening to the music coming from indoors and watching for anyone emerging.

The night becomes peaceful. Calico calms, and Finn finds himself almost resigned to the state their alliance has come to. He understands, but he also doesn't. It isn't bothering him. He figures that if Luxor, the one person who could've been prevented from being reaped if Calico had volunteered, is fine with the situation, then he can be too.

The silence doesn't last for long, the music picking up while Luxor begins to tap his foot to the rhythm. Calico glances over at Finn, wary, before he finally mumbles, "I have a plan to help you in the bloodbath."

Both boys look at him, eyes wide. Calico is quick to stutter more words, trying to explain himself. "Ch—Cham is the strong one, stronger than me s—so I thought I could use my brains and trick people into exposing their weak points. Didn't go so well, b—but I can use it for other things! I know Luxor is the fastest runner among us, a—and I know most tension is between the careers and Cetronia. I—If I'm close enough, I could…"

Finn blinks slowly. "You could help me get away."

"While I try grab supplies," Luxor finishes.

Calico nods. He's chewing his lip so hard it must be painful. Finn is surprised he hasn't drawn blood.

He breathes out a sigh of relief. They're not kicking him out. They're not abandoning him or seeing him as a burden. They still want him just as much as he, through the drug haze and dismay, wants them.

"I trust you," he says. Calico stares at him in disbelief.

"I lied to you for a solid week."

"Would've done the same if I looked a thing like a twelve-year-old girl."

Luxor chuckles. "Morganite would've killed you."

"She sassed me the first time we spoke." Finn smiles fondly. "She was hungover and threw up on everyone."

Everything feels so different now. Finn still has little to no hope of going home, still isn't sure why he's bothering to fight for his life, but now he can feel the spark of energy his father would smile proudly at. The desire to do his best that had made Barb throw him into the trash and call him a hero. Not everything's better, but not everything is as hard as it was before tonight.

He watches with his first real, relaxed smile of the night as Calico leaves his choker to dry in Finn's hands. As Luxor takes off his punch-sticky jacket and dumps it into the fountain. As the District Eight duo try to ease their minds by learning a waltz to the time of the orchestra inside.

As, with a flutter of hope in his stomach, he remembers he's not alone in this anymore.

* * *

 **And here we are, right at the second-last chapter before Hell Time. Was dinner as eventful as y'all hoped? There was a lot to cover now that they all had a chance to interact outside of training, but I think I got it all! Till next time, here's the QQ!**

 **QQ #26:** Do _you_ think Gossamer was telling the truth to Avita after dessert came out?


	33. Ultimatum

**Helloooooooooo! We've reached our last chapter before the bloodbath! Gosh, only took us, what, two years? Phew, what a ride it's been so far. I've got some notes at the end of the chapter as well as our usual QQ, so enjoy in the meantime!**

* * *

 **32 - Ultimatum**

 **Calico Hemingway, 17, District 8**

He can't help how much he paces once he and Luxor return to their floor. He can't help how tightly his clenches his fists, nails digging red half-moons into his palms and threatening to draw blood. He can't help the nagging paranoia and distrust in the back of his mind as the realisation of what he's done tonight sets in.

Tonight was a mistake. Calico has never been more certain of that than he is now. He should've played it all off as Cham knowing exactly what happened— _she probably really does, who is he kidding?_ —and empathising with him. How many other people knew about the fire? About Atlas and Delaine _dying_ right in front of Calico? About Calico repressing the mere sight of his _best friends_ —

He inhales sharply and wrings his hands tightly together. Keep your cool, Callie. You're better than this—better than a hair trigger breakdown. This is fine. This is all going to be fine.

Except it's not. God, it's so _far_ from fine. Did Lola bring it up because she _wanted_ to expose Calico on live TV? Calico picks at his nails on his left hand. How long has Lola known? She can't have gathered the information about the fire in just a few hours. Before the private sessions? Did Ulysses lie to him after the Parade and tell her? Highly likely. Calico clicks his tongue and scrapes a bit too harshly at his middle nail. Never should've trusted Ulysses's word. Never should've given up so quickly.

Should've lied through his teeth. Should've bullshitted something about Chambray being trans—closeted—and dealt with that mess instead of _this_.

Should've volunteered in the first place.

Of their entire team, Greve is the only one unaware by this point. Charlotte was the first in on it, uncannily able to tell apart the twins despite only knowing them for an hour. Then there was Ulysses— _untrustworthy, lying Ulysses_ —and now it's Luxor's turn. The model in question, who'd been so attentive of "Chambray" and her reluctance to get close to other tributes, sabotaging his own shots at alliances, sits across the room from Calico's ever pacing form. He doesn't look bothered in the least by Calico's anxiety; if anything his focus is on his jacket, beyond saving with even the cheapest and quickest of stain removal methods.

Luxor lets out a soft sigh and gives up on his jacket quicker than Calico expects him to. He rises from the chair by his desk, fixes a levelled gaze on Calico, and offers the weakest smile Calico has ever seen in his life. Calico playing the part of a pleasant person looks more genuine than Luxor's attempt at being positive.

"Finn took the news well," Luxor tries. Calico can only stare at him, utterly exhausted, without so much as a word of reply. "And your plan was really good. I think we'll have a chance."

It's really not a good plan. It's basic, at best, and it all relies too much on sentiment than logic. Calico can do _better_ to get himself back home to Cham. Calico just can't bring himself to after everything Finn's done for him during training. And with Delaine and Atlas flooding his mind whenever he lets his guard down… Well, Calico doesn't like the idea of another face staring blankly up at him as bones break and snap in all but a second.

There's also the matter of Cham being disappointed if he doesn't try to help his ally. He doesn't know if he can live with her seeing him as cold-hearted like most other people who've been privy to his true self. Cham is the last person he has to treat him like normal. Their parents try—God, they try so hard—but with Delaine and Atlas gone, there's only Cham…

Luxor notices the silence, notices the disbelief and possibly even the doubts. But he doesn't move. He looks at Calico, hesitant, before asking, "Would you be comfortable if I hugged you?"

Calico bristles immediately. " _No_ ," he deflects. "I don't— Touching isn't my thing."

And Luxor Aricunai, despite being refused, just nods. "Okay," he says. He points to the couch behind them. "Are you comfortable just sitting for a while? No touching," he adds quickly as Calico tries to argue.

He chews his lip. His nails hurt from how hard he'd scraped at them. Calico just wants to get out of this damn dress that Croix felt the need to spill pudding all over.

"Okay," he says quietly.

Calico sinks down onto the couch. He doesn't let out a tired sigh like he wants to, nor does he entertain Luxor's desire to make sure he's "okay". Calico just sits there. Calico just thinks. Calico just exists.

It feels almost normal if he blocks everything but himself out.

Luxor talks. Of course he talks, he's so damned concerned about Calico. He should be angry at him. He should be cursing Calico's existence. He should be wanting him dead. But instead it's all, "I would've done the same if I had a sister," and, "I still think you're pretty cool, doing that out of sheer love for your sister." It's reassurance that Calico doesn't deserve. It's a comfort only Chambray is supposed to give him.

He cuts off Luxor mid-sentence by this train of thought. "Why don't you hate me?" he says, loud and clear. Luxor freezes. His expression falls—it's closer to what Calico had wanted him to regard the blond with this whole time—but his soft tone doesn't fade.

"I don't think you deserve it," Luxor admits. He chews his lip, almost as though debating what's best to say. Calico doesn't understand why he needs to think it over. Capitolites never really care about hurting little District kids' feelings. "I don't love or hate the Games. I won't lie about my opinion over it because I know you won't appreciate it. But I do know that people…" Luxor sucks in a deep breath, hands waving about in an attempt to help him find his words. "People do what they feel is necessary in the Games. Lie. Cheat. Manipulate." He dares a sidelong glance at Calico. "Protect. Sacrifice themselves. Necessity is subjective, y'know?"

Calico simply nods. He doesn't jump in with a reply—the way Luxor shifts on the couch awkwardly is as good a sign as any that there's more to come with his speech.

"I don't hate you," Luxor says slowly, "because I believe you acted out of necessity. You didn't pretend to be your sister so you could make someone suffer—so you could make _me_ suffer. You did it to protect her, right?"

"I could've vol—"

"But you didn't." Calico flinches at the truth. He tears his gaze from Luxor. "No, sorry. I—I mean… You _couldn't_. I know how it feels, wanting to say or do something and having everything—your body, your voice, sometimes even your own mind—rebel against you. It's like— Uh— _shit_ —"

Now Luxor sounds frustrated. He clenches and unclenches his fists in his lap.

"Fight or fli— No," Luxor cuts himself off. He lets out a dismayed sigh, agitated by his struggle to find the word. Calico thinks he knows what the older boy is getting at. Maybe.

"Self preservation," he mumbles. Luxor startles. "You're telling me self preservation kept me from volunteering. Basic instinct overrode logic and desire."

When Calico looks up at him for confirmation, he finds Luxor back to chewing his lip and nodding frantically in agreement. There's relief in his otherwise anxious expression, like he'd glad his intention came through in the end. Calico just stares up at him. He doesn't know if he feels all that better, hearing Luxor's thought process over the whole thing.

He's not sure he believes him, either.

"Your dad wants me dead," Calico tries.

Luxor shrugs. "He'll have to get through me first. If he can kill the children of twenty-three families every year, he's a hypocrite to think I don't deserve it either. The real Chambray Hemingway doesn't deserve to win back her life by killing her peers, and you don't deserve my hate for protecting her from that fate."

"You're stubborn," Calico growls. It'd be so much easier to process this if he just _hated him_. If he'd just abandon him like logic would demand.

But Luxor just gives him a half-smile. A hand reaches up, ever so slowly and always within Calico's sight, until finally it drops softly on his scalp and strokes his hair. The sheer level of affection and kindness in the gesture overwhelms Calico. Cham's the only one who's shown this much care with him whilst foregoing caution.

"I'm also on your side," Luxor says proudly. "And so's Finn. When the timer goes off tomorrow I'm gonna stick to you like glue. Have to kill me to get rid of me," he adds with a grin. Calico can't help noting the hitch to his voice towards the end, the anxiety returning over his words.

"Apparently," Calico concedes anyway. He heaves out a sigh and closes his eyes. Luxor's hand still pets his hair, never once losing its rhythm as the seconds tick by.

It feels nice. Somewhere in the back of his mind it feels _familiar_. Not everything regarding Delaine and Atlas is back, safe in his memory where it should be, but bits and pieces are there. Atlas teaching him about the stars and Delaine sneaking him flowers she came across. He doesn't know if it was Delaine or Atlas or even just Cham, but fingers carding through his hair brings him a sort of ease that not even his daily living had granted him back in Eight.

Yes. This is good, he thinks. This is nice. This is the kind of peace Calico yearns for every day.

And then the speaker in the corner of the room crackles to life, a chime ringing out into the silent space.

" _Chambray Hemingway to floor five, meeting room eight. Chambray Hemingway_ —"

"Fuck," Calico hisses. Now everything's coming back to him: The interview, the dinner, his private session, Ulysses telling him he's safe.

Luxor heaves himself off the couch with a sigh. He stretches and turns to Calico, making sure to tell him, "You don't have to go immediately. They can't fault you for wanting to change, unless you, uh…" He gestures to the pink- and brown-stained dress. "I mean, I hear food fights are big in the fashion scene lately."

If he's not joking, Calico's distaste for fashion has increased threefold with that particular revelation.

It takes little time to just change into the pyjamas the Capitol provided for his stay. Dull and grey, but more muted—more his style—compared to the vibrant things he's been dressed in so far. He's only glad no one's brought up the Godawful Elizabethan collar he'd been stuffed into. The dresses and accessories and makeup? Calico can deal with that. But looking like a dog that just came out of surgery and perpetually stuck staring up at the sky? That is, in fact, a line Calico would not like to cross again in his lifetime.

He leaves a good half an hour after the announcement. Whoever wants to see him is bound to be even more mad than they were before. Calico takes a small victory in making them wait for him as long as he deems necessary.

And necessary, in this case, is spite.

The elevator leaves him some semblance of silence to ponder over how he'll be executed. Will they arrest him and send a mutt in his place, killing him in the Games and making him watch Chambray mourn him? Or will they execute him on the spot and automatically assign his placement, launching only twenty-three children tomorrow? Whatever he's been called for will more than likely end in a death sentence for Calico Hemingway—it makes him almost wish he'd left a will with Luxor or Charlotte, were it not for the fact that his belongings were little and shared with Cham.

The elevator suddenly comes to a slow at floor thirteen. The District Three flour, Calico realises with a frown. If Croix Farrington sets foot in this enclosed space with Calico, he'll probably leave the Gamemakers with only twenty-two children to launch. Damn bastard, staining his mother's—his _sister's_ , his _family's_ —choker. He may not like fashion but damn it, that was an heirloom. An heirloom Croix single handedly tainted with strawberry- and caramel-flavoured pudding cups.

But it's not Croix he sees when the doors part. But the person who smiles knowingly at him is certainly involved with him.

"Chambray," Gossamer greets with an airy voice. "I believe you're running a little late."

Gossamer presses the button for the seventh floor. Calico's brows furrow at the number. What's on the seventh floor that Gossamer needs? That's where the Gamemakers operate, last he checked.

"But then again," Gossamer goes on, "with the night you've had, they probably can't blame you. How's the choker?"

His fingers twitch at his sides. So that was it, was it? Gossamer and Croix planned the spillage together? Calico's not used to being so angry so often in one day, but he's more than willing to learn if he has to put up with _this_ asshole for more than a single elevator ride.

"Stained," he growls through his teeth. " _Thank you_."

"N'aw, muffet."

And then, as soon as the number above the doors turns into a ten, Gossamer hits the emergency stop.

Calico immediately backs to the window, eyes wide and trained on Gossamer. That's a move to assert power, if he ever saw one. He's on high alert as the lights dull and the PA system softly informs them that engineers will assist them in five minutes. Gossamer is casual about the whole situation, examining his nails in the low, red lighting while Calico presses himself to the glass. He dares a glance over his shoulder.

Will a fall from this height kill him? Surely. If he grabs a rail on his way down? Probably dislocate or even rip off his arms entirely, but his fall will break somewhat. Still lethal, though—just a lot more agonising.

Calico takes extra note of the walkway that criss-crosses the centre of the eighth floor. If he's forceful enough, he can maneuver his falling body into its path. Calico swallows the lump in his throat as the sweat beads along his brow. Non-lethal. Most extensive damage will be bone-deep, but non-lethal if he lands on his side—put the weight on one of his shoulders and hips.

He looks back at Gossamer. Behind the taller boy is utter darkness, the outline of the elevator doors barely visible as the light above them casts a spotlight over a crown of golden hair. Calico presses himself harder against the glass. For a moment he's blinking hard at the flash of light that reflects off of Gossamer's obnoxiously large earrings—and in that moment Gossamer makes his move, closing the distance between them and removing the dulled glow from Calico's sight.

All he can see are pearly whites grinning down at him and blue eyes dulled by the shadows cast over Gossamer's face. Despite the circular shape of the elevator, Calico is effectively herded into the corner. The _corner_ of a _circular_ elevator, he thinks in astonishment.

Just like with Cham's name being called out on live television, too, his voice refuses to claw its way out of his throat. Calico just stares with more terror than he used to believe himself incapable of. This is not how Chambray Hemingway would react to a confrontation, he scolds himself. This is not how his sister, who he's seamlessly pretended to be for these people, would react.

Chambray Hemingway would punch Gossamer Wormwood right in the nose and climb up out of the elevator, where the engineers would probably meet her.

Calico Hemingway, on the other hand, is not strong enough to punch Gossamer Wormwood in any sense. Nor is he strong enough to pull himself through a roof he has no hope of reaching in the first place.

"Twelve is quite the score," Gossamer says, and Calico wishes _so much_ that the silence and the foreboding and _anything else at all could keep Gossamer from talking_. "Do you know how a tribute gets a twelve in the Hunger Games, Chambray?"

Calico sucks in a shaky breath. He lifts his chin— _Chambray isn't afraid of someone like Gossamer Wormwood, damn it_ —and curtly replies, "How?"

Gossamer lunges at him. Calico flinches, but otherwise doesn't make a move to run. It's the reaping all over again, his legs turning to jelly and his hands frozen at his sides. He can't even scream in surprise, settling only to inhale sharply through his nose to keep from flat-out passing out. The reaction would've been for nothing, he finds; Gossamer stops short of actually making contact with him, faking the boy out with a smug grin directed at him.

"Gamemakers give twelves to threats," Gossamer whispers. "And I already know what made Octavia a threat."

And then he's backing away. He's keeping his eyes on Calico as he rests against the far wall. He's smiling as he reaches for the emergency phone and lifts it from the hook.

"Sorry about that," Gossamer says, and the shame in his voice is so _fake_. So _Calico-like_ , the blond realises with dawning horror. "I bumped the button and didn't notice till now. I thought there was a lockdown but we just realised nowhere else is sealed off."

He pauses as the voice on the other line replies. An expertly manicured hand is raised to his face, a single finger hovering over his lips. Calico can't feel his heartbeat. Should he feel his heartbeat? He's never noticed till this very moment. Should he _need_ to notice?

"Alright. No, no problem. Much appreciated."

There's a thump of feet above them.

"I hear 'em now. Sorry for the misunderstanding. I'll be more careful from now on."

Two openings appear in the elevator then: Above them, where a panel is pulled away and a scruffy face peeks in to ask what the problem is, and behind Gossamer, where another engineer has successfully opened the doors via the control panel. Gossamer greets them with a pleased smile, commending them for coming to their rescue. Calico remains rooted to the spot, even as he's offered the chance to take the stairs with Gossamer rather than chance the elevator again.

Their voices are so far away. Calico isn't even listening as they talk on, assuming he's fine with remaining within the elevator.

He sinks to the floor before the doors even close fully. He misses Gossamer's self-satisfied smirk. He misses the concerned expressions of the engineers. He misses _everything_. One minute he's on the cold metal floor, the next he's standing outside of meeting room eight.

Floor five, he presumes. Was he supposed to notice arriving? That should be concerning. How much time did he just lose? Ten minutes? Calico runs a hand through his hair, squeezes his eyes shut in an attempt to shake off the disorientation in the back of his mind.

He can only hope, as he opens the door to the meeting room, that he doesn't potentially black out again in the bloodbath. _If_ he makes it that far.

Malvolia Nero awaits him on the other side. Celestia Snow, dressed in her delicate night clothes and cotton dressing gown, hovers by a coffee jug and hums softly to herself. Both women look his way when he shuts the door behind him. Neither looks unimpressed by his delay.

It isn't until Calico sits down as far away from them as possible that they actually address him. There are no Peacekeepers in the room with them. Not even Luxor's father. But Calico still feels as though he's in more danger here than he will be in any arena they conjure up tomorrow.

A threat, Gossamer called him. A tribute the Games staff see as a _threat_. They'd be fools not to nip the problem that is Calico in the bud any longer.

"Mr. Hemingway," Celestia greets. She takes a sip of her coffee and sits opposite him, all the way on the other end of the room. "Care for a drink?"

Calico shakes his head. If Luxor and Finn truly trust him to go through with his terrible plan, he'll need all the sleep he can get.

"Alright. Do you know why you're here, Mr. Hemingway?"

"Because I was never supposed to be here to begin with," Calico says flatly. Not the way he'd like to phrase it, but from the broadcasts and information he's gleaned this week it's the most "pleasing" way Celestia would put it.

And she nods, smiling almost approvingly at him.

"It _is_ quite the predicament for all of us involved. Even you, I imagine." She shrugs. "I'll cut to the chase, Calico, because you have a long day ahead of you in the morning. There's only two ways you'll come out of the arena, and they are non-negotiable."

So he's not dying _tonight_. Not the most reassuring of news—now he has to guess and wait for the actual moment it happens.

"Your first choice," Celestia lists, and she raises a finger up in the air. "You die in the Games. Chambray Hemingway ceases to exist, going down in history as another statistic of the Games, while your sister assumes life under your name. We'll even sweeten the pot and make sure your own name never appears in the reapings until she's nineteen."

Calico digs his fingers into his knees. Chambray is safe— _Chambray lives on as him_ —as long as Calico dies. That's everything he's aspired for in this endeavour, everything he wanted when he traded places with her back in the Justice Building.

He feels himself smiling before he can stop himself. Calico smacks his palm over his mouth, eyes darting back up to Celestia. She looks happy with the reaction, at least.

A second finger rises. "If you don't die," she tells him, and he swears her tone takes a lighter turn, "then you will leave me no choice but to punish you. Calico Hemingway, if you go on to be the District victor of the Quell, I will make it my personal mission to ensure you and your sister _never_ see each other, let alone _speak_ to each other again. She will be detained during your tour in Eight, and you will be given a home in the Capitol along with whoever wins with you. Peacekeepers following your every move, fans always keeping you occupied, tributes always needing your guidance."

Malvolia yawns loudly behind Celestia.

"You win, you never see your sister again," she sums up. "You die, you at least give her the stability of never being reaped again."

He blinks at the two women. He opens his mouth. Shuts it. His stomach churns and the emotions he'd _just_ gotten back into the basement of his mind are demanding acknowledgement. Are his hands shaking? Calico can't tell. He can't feel his hands and he can't feel his feet and he can't feel _anything why can't he feel anything?_

"What?"

It's so soft and weak that he's sure he imagined saying it.

"I'm sure you might need time to think it over," Celestia tells him sweetly. She downs the rest of her coffee in two swift gulps. She rises from her chair and nods for Malvolia to follow her. They take their time walking by Calico and towards the door, and they don't even bother to wait for him to stand as well. They probably don't expect him to. "You don't have to let us know before the launch. In the end it's all about the results, right?"

They don't shut the door behind them. Calico is left all by himself in meeting room eight. Left only to the wave of panic washing over him and cutting off his air supply. Left only with the realisation that, in both scenarios, there will be no reunion with Chambray waiting for him. Left only with the wish that Celestia had just killed him right there and then instead of… _that_.

Calico hiccups. He tries to stand, but his legs feel so weak that they just collapse under him. Calico doesn't feel pain when he tumbles to the floor. If anything, he only registers just how _scared_ he is in this moment.

He'll die for Chambray. Calico can say that without a shadow of a doubt. He _wants_ to die for Chambray. As long as she's safe and happy, he's content with that fate. But it's so selfish. So selfish, because he can't imagine Cham doing the same for him. He can't _allow_ her to. She's his whole reason for existing—to simply let her make that sacrifice would be like suicide to Calico. It would go wasted, and then where will they be? Separated in another life?

He curls up into a ball and lets himself cry on the floor. This is the last time he'll let the emotions take over so strongly. He _will_ have more control. He _will_ approach this with logic.

It was sweet of Luxor to comfort him tonight, but he's not sure he can agree with what he's been told. He wipes at his cheeks with the heels of his hands, throat raw as he begins to wail uncontrollably.

Calico Hemingway should be despised. Calico Hemingway should never have allies.

Calico Hemingway deserves everything he gets for sending someone else's child to their unnecessary death.

* * *

 **QQ #27:** What do you think Calico will do? Will Luxor convince him to live, or will he embrace death for Cham's sake?

 **Whoo! Thirty-two chapters! This is MASSIVE compared to my usual stuff - the last SYOC I finished was only twenty-odd chapters long, so this is honestly pretty new for me! Thank you all so much for sticking around this long, and I hope the Games live up to the unspoken hype we've all built up these past couple of years lol**

 **Quick notes! The first is that, due to the POV used in the bloodbath (it's not the Gamemakers! Oooooh!), the bloodbath will not come out until AFTER all of the Ad Aeturnum introductions are done. As of right now we only have three more chapters of intros left, with two Districts per chapter. Until then I'm super excited to hear what placements you guys predict so far!**

 **The second note is that, with the lovely guidance of my beta readers, I started a discord server to chat about the Ad Verse as a whole and have some fun in between chapters! There's categories for each upcoming fic in my universe, and it's a pretty convenient way to keep in touch with me while I'm in school and working on the fic between homework! We've also got some sketches of characters floating around courtesy of Henry and Andy, with Henry occasionally taking requests when he finds expression memes! (Henry also writes "Viewed in Parallax", which you should all totally check out btw.)**

 **I think that's everything? You can find the link for my server on my profile for easy copy-pasting, and other than that there's not much more to add! Hopefully I can come back to Mortem with a birthday update (June 12, start the counter) but any time in June will be rad! Till then, guys! :)**


	34. Bloodbath

**Whoof, we made it y'all. I'll see you all at the bottom of the chapter once you've had a read of this mess!**

* * *

 **33 - Bloodbath**

 **Luvenia Nero, 15**

"I can't believe they let us in," Selma whispers.

Luve grips her sister's hand tightly. She can't quite believe it either—that two fifteen-year-olds just got full access to the Games HQ, no Peacekeepers tailing them or anything. Luve's never seen even _Lola_ go through the place without a guard to keep an eye on her. It's suspicious, but at the same time she can rationalise it with her bitterness very easily.

"Probably forgot we have access to her files," Luve mutters. Selma pales at the idea, but doesn't argue. It's not like Malvolia's been doing much in the realm of the motherly towards them. Not since Oz had started kindergarten, at least.

There's still fifteen minutes until the official arena launch, and so far Luve and Selma have found nothing noteworthy for their contacts outside of the Capitol. She knows their task is far from reconnaissance, but damn it, Luve wants to do more than just bug one Gamemaker's office and install a virtual backdoor in a computer. Who cares how dangerous and risky it is doing just those two tasks? Luve wants to feel a sense of accomplishment with this, physical proof that screams, _I brought this ruin upon you_.

She steadies her breathing as best she can once Selma comes to a halt outside Malvolia's office. It's a simple matter of unlocking the door with Malvolia's old key, and then they're sneaking inside the empty room. Malvolia always keeps things neat and organised—which makes the Nero sisters' job a whole lot easier. Selma scuttles over to Malvolia's desktop and wastes no time putting on the thin sanitary gloves she'd picked up on the way in. The little USB drive their insider had given them is inserted into the harddrive, and then it's only a matter of waiting.

Luve lingers by Malvolia's other screens in the room, where less sensitive things can be accessed. Tribute files, streams of Gamemaker HQ at work—anything Malvolia can look at if she's too busy to leave her office or something. Luve chews her lip. She looks at one screen, flicks it on. Footage of the tributes for the Quell, settled into their seats of the hovership, flickers to life.

Luve grew up loving the Games like any other child in the Capitol. Having this kind of behind the scenes access should've made her giddy and excited, the fact that Luve _knows_ more than her classmates being a power trip once upon a time. But now… Now it's hard to look at this as anything other than the calm before the storm.

She wonders if her biological mother had looked like this, once upon a time. If, like Daphne Petharaph, she'd huddled in on herself and forced herself to quiet her sobs. If, like Adrianne Evans, she'd reached out for her closest ally and tried to be their rock during the agonising wait for arrival.

The thought makes her sick to her stomach. She focuses more on the sound of Selma tapping away at Malvolia's keyboard than the soft, silent conversations the District Eight pair are having. She needs something to take half of her attention away, to block out her disgust and desire to just _run_ and _attack_ Malvolia in the HQ.

Luve flicks on another screen. Lola is doing a recap of the reapings, hyping everyone up for the bloodbath. She watches as Jareth Vilna scorns his caretaker with a sweet smile. She finds herself cringing at the sight of Phyllis Hamilton being tased as she tries to run from the Peacekeepers in Seven. She feels her heart breaking into two when she sees Florence Fontana fight against her sister's grip and beg to go to the aviary.

"This is terrible," she mutters. Selma pauses her typing to look up at her.

"Do you…" She chews her lip, almost second-guessing her words. "Do you want to look for your mom while I do this?"

Luve stares at Selma with wide eyes. She hadn't thought to do that. The profiles and notes of all tributes in previous Games are archived in the Head Gamemaker's office. All Luve needs to look for is a surname—the same name their insider had revealed her grandparents to be.

The tapping fills the silence again as Luve flicks on the remaining screens. One shows the launch areas for the twelve District tributes. The other shows the twelve feeds of the Capitol tributes. The stylists inside each room pace and fidget with equal amounts of anxiety. She can't blame them, honestly.

The first few tributes are escorted to their launch areas while Luve pulls files out from a nearby desk drawer. She's not even entirely sure when her mother went into the Hunger Games, if Luve had been stolen from her District by Malvolia or if she'd been born shortly prior to the Games launch. She knows she has a fifteen year gap to work with, but it's too many tributes to sift through at a time.

Altan Knight shakes the hand of his stylist and is handed a small item that must be his family crest. Luve remembers reading that it's his token, but hasn't seen its design as of yet. Further down the screen, Octavia Faye chats briefly with her stylist as he helps her into her arena uniform—pants that look as though they're made from parachute fabric, a puffy vest that might be water resistant, a long-sleeved thermal shirt, shin-high rubber boots. Luve spots a breathing apparatus on the desk behind the stylist. She's quick to realise no one else has one in their prep station.

She looks over at the Capitolite screen, at Valentina Teagan. No mask to be seen as the girl gleefully zips up her puffer vest. Luve looks to the next one—Wystan Warwick, frowning at his uniform—and once again there's no apparatus. This is odd, Luve thinks. Why does Octavia…?

"Selma," Luve whispers. Selma pauses typing again. "I think Eunice is… Helping Octavia?"

Selma bursts out of the chair and scuttles over to Luve's side. "Oh," Selma wheezes upon seeing the apparatus. She points back to the computer and adds, "There's some notes about those being in the cornucopia, but not about them being part of the uniform."

Something leaps in Luve's chest—hope?—at the possibility of Eunice, their insider among the Gamemakers, helping Octavia with supplies. Selma returns to the computer while Luve resumes looking through files and glancing at the screens.

Simoleon Serif is pushed by the entire stylist team towards the tube leaving to the podiums, fear evident in the poor teen's expression. Quatra X shakes a Peacekeeper's hand—very odd, Luve thinks at first, but she quickly remembers that Quatra is from a spy family. Finnegan Styx is granted a cane to walk himself over to the tube, and he looks a lot better than the night before with his cast off and the morphling out of his system. Oryza Belfast hugs her stylist and writes something down on the notepad she's given every so often.

And then something unexpected catches her attention.

Morganite Gardierre stands patiently by her stylist as Peacekeepers wheel in shelf after shelf of weapons, each one more dangerous than the last. Luve slams her fist against the screen as Morganite looks through each option.

"That cheater!" Luve yells. Selma hisses at her to be quiet, but Luve just glares at the distorted image of Morganite in front of her. "They're letting her take a weapon in—who _allowed_ this!?"

" _Mom_ ," Selma tries. " _Mom_ allowed it, Luve. Please, we have to be quiet."

She turns her attention back to the District screens. She needs to keep her cool, needs to focus on someone who isn't about to play dirty off the bat.

Luve focuses on Cetronia Livius testing the strength of her vest and pants (the hem of her pants leg tears easily, the inside looking to be made of a thick mesh best suited for camping and hiking). Tooru Ikeda fixes his binder as best he can and nods along as his stylist—Lola's brother-in-law, of all people—gives instructions on safe binding habits in the arena. The scenes are calm and feel almost tender. At least Tooru's does.

She looks back over at the slightly cracked Capitol screen and gives it a cursory once-over. Nikostratos Farrington strapping a smartwatch to his wrist with an impassive expression. Gossamer Wormwood giving up a fountain pen nonchalantly, like he never even wanted to bring a token anyway. Epsilon Church kissing the symbol of his namesake on his necklace before backing into the tube with a solemn expression.

Attention jumps to Morganite again, but the girl has already entered the tube and begun rising. The weapon is difficult to see now, but something else of equal interest is made apparent to Luve as she looks to the next Capitol tribute. Cyber Tronovsky has his head bent as his stylist jams something into the back of his neck, as a few minutes of bated silence passes. And then Cyber begins screaming.

It's the most agonised scream Luve's ever heard. It's the scream of a parent watching their child being reaped. It's the scream of someone who's received the worst news of their life. It's the scream of someone who's pushed down emotions for so long, _so long_ , that all they can do is unleash it all at once. Tears—real tears, something she thought the mostly-mechanical boy incapable of producing—stream down his face as he sags to the floor and wails uncontrollably.

As the stylist drags Cyber along the floor, visibly struggling with the grieving boy's weight, Luve turns to Selma.

"What did… What did they do to Cyber?"

Selma's already looked it up, apparently. Her face is sheet-white, a hand over her mouth while her eyes are blown wide.

After a moment, Selma lowers her hand and says, "They gave the Capitol kids sabotages. Cyber… Cyber asked for the harddrive with his emotions downloaded onto it. Asked for it to be reinstalled."

And then the feeds from the screens cut off, replaced by multiple images of Lola onstage and holding a microphone.

" _Welcome, Panem, to the Fourth Quarter Quell of the Annual Hunger Games!_ " she bellows.

"So soon?" Selma whimpers. She looks back down at the screen, inhaling sharply through her nose. "I still need a few minutes."

"She won't leave until after the bloodbath concludes and the first placements are made," Luve reassures her sister. Selma chews her lip. "We've got time."

Selma wrings her hands through the gloves. "Okay," she says softly. "Okay. We've got time."

" _I'm coming to you live from Hunger Games HQ, and it is an absolute honour to be your host this year! Are we excited, Panem?_ "

The grainy cheers of the crowd fills the room. Luve wants to throw up. _She used to be like them._

Lola strides over to the screen behind her, gesturing wildly as it displays something to the audience. The view from Luve's screens shows what's televised, though—an immediate cut to the arena, a bird's eye view of the cornucopia as the tributes rise on their podiums. They look to be inside a large hall—like a town hall, she wonders?—but Luve knows that isn't the extent of the arena. Doors and windows lead to an unseen outside world, but the inside of the hall looks like it's been waterlogged for a decade. Wood is warped, windows are shattered, and algae, corals and mussels coat almost every corner of the building and every inch of the walls.

The sound within the arena is muted, but it's obvious that Cyber, who's now curled in on himself on the podium, defeated, is still grieving. From the opening of the cornucopia and going clockwise, she lists them off.

Chambray, looking left and right for her allies; Cyber and then Phyllis, the elder stunned at the despair radiating from the younger; Finnegan, swaying on his feet but otherwise holding himself steady; Oryza, shaking as she searches out Epsilon in the formation; Tooru, his head held high as he steels himself; Gossamer, a playful smirk on his face as though everything has just fallen into place.

" _Our arena for this year's Games is a special case, discovered after the waters receded from our lovely pet project that was sadly lost to the elements little under two decades ago!_ " Lola explains.

Next to Gossamer is a very anxious Luxor, who flexes his hands open and shut to cool his nerves; Adrianne is next, shaking ever so subtly as she waits for the countdown; Florence stands idly by, waving to her alliance halfway across the cornucopia; Simoleon has a hand clamped over a pale face, the other at their stomach suggesting they're on the verge of throwing up out of stress; and then Quatra, calm and composed as she waits patiently for the Games to begin.

" _The island was first discovered in 78A.D.D_ — _that's 'after dark days' for kids learning history at school!_ — _and President Snow I, rest his soul, sought to make the island a haven for Victors and Capitolites alike,_ " Lola goes on. " _It was to be called 'Elysium'._ "

Daphne is next, wiping her eyes with one hand while the other holds her glasses; then it's Epsilon, stoic and crouched into a fighting stance; next is Cole—"His file is updated to say 'Flare' now," Selma tells her—who fidgets on his feet and tries not to trigger the mines around his podium; after Cole is Avita, who wastes no time reaching for her poodle-shaped hair clip and removing it from her hair.

" _Sadly this home away from home was lost to us in its third year of construction due to an earthquake and tsunami in 81A.D.D."_ Lola sighs wistfully. " _But now it's emerged and ready for_ — _OH MY WORD!_ "

An explosion of red and yellow and orange onscreen startles Luve. There's an instant replay cropped into the top corner of the screen, showing Avita throwing her hair clip at Wystan, completely unawares, with all her might. Before she can process what's been done, another explosion goes off—this time on Avita's other side. The next instant replay begins: Cole, startled by the explosion, physically jumps in the air and lands haphazardly on his podium. His foot slips. He slides down. The mines go off.

Avita is left wide-eyed and struggling to breathe. Blood from both the tributes beside her now coat her entire body, and Luve almost wishes she can hear what's being said as Avita shakes her head at a furious Altan Knight—who had been directly beside Wystan.

" _Avita Clements-McMillan has just taken out Wystan Warwick before the Games have even started!_ " Lola drops all intentions of explaining Elysium further to the crowd. " _Ladies and gentlemen, I think this is the first time a tribute has ever done such a thing with their token before the bloodbath can begin. And it came from one of our own, no less!_ "

Next to the enraged Altan is Morganite, sheathed backsword clutched in her arms as she gags and retches at the sight of all the internal organs splattered across the ground; Valentina has her hands over her mouth, still as a statue as she stares down at the remains; Cetronia, despite all the chaos happening a dozen feet away from her, remains impervious.

" _No point in waiting, then_ ," Lola decides. " _Gamemakers, how about we start that countdown?_ "

A deep voice booms over the speakers, the number sixty replacing the tile replaying Cole and Wystan's deaths.

Jareth's hands shake as he stares ahead, but Luve can see the spark of life in his eyes; Octavia—Luve's idol, the one person she genuinely wants to _win_ —tugs the breathing apparatus over her mouth and nose as she prepares for the timer to reach zero; Nikostratos, smug and relaxed, doesn't even look as though he'll lift a finger in the bloodbath to come.

"Almost done," Selma updates. Luve jumps. She dives for the files she has yet to read, scooping them into her arms before grabbing more in the next drawer. They'll need to leave as soon as the bloodbath ends. With something as unexpected as this, they can't even afford to be distracted for one second.

The sound inside the arena has been turned up, and now Luve can hear what's being exchanged between Altan and Avita as the seconds tick by.

"I only wanted to help him!" Avita cries at Altan. Altan spits curses back at her, face red and fists clenched by his sides. "Please, I didn't mean to—!"

" _Bullshit_!" Altan bellows. "You planned it with that snake, Wormwood! Why else would an airhead like you pull such a cheap trick!?"

A wail sounds from further along the podiums, squeaks mixing in with Daphne's dismayed shouts. "Cole, no!"

"Cole!?" Florence echoes, and then it turns into a ripple effect as Cole's alliance collectively mourns him. All the while Altan keeps yelling at Avita.

Altan turns to Morganite. "Throw the sword to me!" he orders her. Morganite is still retching. "Morganite! _Now_!"

The countdown reaches fifteen. Half of the tributes are either panicking or mourning, shell shocked by Avita's actions. It's got to be one of the worst domino effects Luve's seen in a bloodbath.

All the while Gossamer and Croix smile to themselves.

Luve grabs for files that go as far back as the Eighty-Fifth Games. Every file that has "female tribute" written on the top next to their District, Luve stuffs them under her arms and bounces on her feet.

"Almost done?" she asks Selma. A hum in the affirmative comes from her sister. "Okay. Okay, we can do this." Five seconds remain on the countdown. "We're gonna make things right from today onwards."

The timer finishes, a loud alarm blaring in the hall, and all hell just breaks loose.

Avita tumbles from her podium with a screech, landing face-first in the remains of Cole and Wystan around her. The only thing on her that isn't blood is her tears, and they flow so freely that they almost clean her cheeks entirely. She sprints as fast as she can—not as fast as Epsilon Church, who practically flies off of his podium and careens in the direction of his ally, Oryza. Luve glances over at Oryza, at how she stands on her podium with her hands clamped firmly over her eyes. Why isn't she watching? Why isn't she moving?

Cetronia jumps off her podium and runs for the closest weapons rack while Jareth follows suit. Octavia tries run for a nearby bag, but it's quickly snatched away by Nikostratos as he slams his shoulder into her and plows his way over to Gossamer. Gossamer does the same to Luxor over where the they're launched, stealing a backpack and a nearby spear that he uses to part the sea of tributes between himself and Croix.

Luve watches, stunned, as Finnegan slides down his podium slowly and calls out to Chambray—no, she stops herself. He distinctly calls, "Callie!" Chambray—Callie?—whoever they are, they run in Finnegan's direction and grab blindly at the bags around them. A bow gets caught on the strap of the bag, and instead of stopping to untangle it (which would leave Finnegan a sitting duck) the Eight tribute just adds it to their inventory.

An arrow whizzes through the air as Gossamer and Croix get closer to a window. One of them trips—Gossamer's voice rings out, " _Son of a bitch!_ " while he pulls the arrow from the back of his thigh. Luve looks back at the cornucopia as the duo smash the window and crawl through, Croix using their combined bags as shields. Luxor stands with his stance leveled and his bowstring still quivering from its release. He has a dozen arrows tucked under his arm as he begins to make his way over to Finnegan and his District partner. A short distance away, Epsilon and Tooru tug at a bag both had dived for. Tooru looks like he might be ready to abandon the bag in search of another, his gaze every so often flitting to his ally, Quatra, as she approaches with a bag of her own; Epsilon makes the decision for him, though, when he grabs for a hatchet and slams it down harshly on his forearm.

Tooru lets go and screeches. He doesn't even have time to continue screaming, let alone fight back, as Epsilon hits him once, twice, three times against the side of his head with the hatchet. He's still twitching on the ground, blood staining his clear skin, when Epsilon makes it to Oryza's side and carries her towards the large doors at the front of the hall.

There's more screams coming from the other tributes remaining, though. Luve looks back at Avita, a short distance away from Tooru's body; the poor girl is wailing and shaking her head as she grabs a small knife from the table right beside Tooru. Altan looks as though he's still pursuing her, but Avita screams even louder and throws a nearby backpack at him. She makes it to a door leading to a bathroom, and from there Luve watches another screen light up with footage of Avita climbing a toilet and dragging herself through the thin window just shy of the ceiling. It looks to be a tight fit, but she makes it out alive.

Over by the cornucopia's opening, Jareth charges at Octavia in an attempt to punch her, knock her out of the way so he can run, and he almost succeeds. Octavia is still off-balance from the collide with Nikostratos, after all. He manages to grab a bag and start fleeing—and then a morningstar knocks his feet out from under him. The poor boy from Eleven yowls as it becomes very, _very_ apparent that one of his knees has been shattered, the other twisted in a way that will never let him get away from his assailant. Cetronia brings the morningstar down on the back of his head, and it takes her some time to pull it out from his smashed skull.

Octavia crawls over to a nearby bag, ready to escape and avoid Cetronia's wrath, but she's almost too late.

"Faye!" Cetronia shouts with authority. Octavia, still on the ground and clutching her bag tight, glares up at the statuesque teen. Cetronia advances with her morningstar raised.

As it swings down, a smaller body dives between the two. Luve can't see who it is—there's a shield strapped to their back and one positioned on their front, blocking the morningstar's path. The spikes on the weapon go through the shield, eliciting a pained grunt from the small body covering Octavia, but no one appears to have died. Cetronia yanks away the morningstar, removing the shield as well, and fumbles for a second with prying her weapon from the warped metal.

Phyllis, bleeding through her uniform on one side, grabs Octavia's hand and does her best to lead her to the front doors.

Cetronia gives up on the hunt. She watches with an almost unreadable expression as her prey escapes, moves on to her new target as though it's not even a big deal to her.

Another fight for supplies breaks out on the opposite end again. Luve is reeling, seeing all this fighting for backpacks that are practically in abundance around the cornucopia—why can't they just grab a different one instead of fight? Neither Florence nor Simoleon look to be giving up any time soon, both squeezing their eyes shut as they yell at the other to, " _Please give it to me!_ "

The politeness brings a stab of pain to Luve's chest.

The struggle doesn't last for long. Simoleon's knight in shining armour, Adrianne, yells out, "Simi, duck!"

Simoleon does just that, a mere second before the blade of the war scythe swings into Florence's face. The tip goes through her eye, drags down her face, and Luve has to actually turn away once the sheer amount of _blood_ and _bone_ explodes from the poor girl's face and paints Simoleon red. Daphne, who'd been safely by Adrianne's side during the scuffle, throws up all over the front of her uniform.

Adrianne grabs Simoleon's hand, leading the teen to Daphne and relaying orders as calmly as she can. "Take them to the window while I get Cyber," she tells Daphne. Despite the youngest tribute being out of harm so far, even Luve knows it's a foolish plan. Cetronia is still haunting the area, meeting her new opponent halfway.

Daphne just shakes her head, sobbing and squeaking uncontrollably. She grabs Adrianne's other arm, still holding the scythe, and attempts to drag the older girl and Simoleon to a nearby window.

The level of pain in Adrianne's eyes as she crawls after Simoleon through the opening, searching for Cyber through the crowd, is indescribable.

Now no longer occupied by Avita, Altan runs past Valentina and Morganite, towards the front of the cornucopia. There's a fury in his eyes that Luve expects in a District One volunteer. His new target must be Cetronia, Luve thinks; the way the two careers stare each other down as they approach spells only trouble for anyone unlucky enough to try butt in.

Valentina and Morganite run to the cornucopia and collect things for themselves. All of the other tributes have either died or left, leaving their new base of operations for the taking. Well, Luve remembers with a pang of guilt, all but Cyber, who wails on his podium still without a care for any of the drama around him.

Altan readies his sword to fight Cetronia, who has yet to fully recover her morningstar from the shield. She doesn't look deterred, simply throwing the weapon and shield to the side, and Luve can see very quickly just why she's not bothered. Why she scored as high as an eleven is apparent when she effortlessly catches Altan's sword arm mid-swing and twists it behind his back. Altan drops the sword as, more than likely, every nerve in the entirety of his arm and shoulder cries out against the strain they've been put under. Morganite and Valentina begin jogging over, completely unaware of what's happening thus far, and it's the opening Cetronia needs to end the scuffle before it can even begin.

One arm snakes around Altan's neck, pulling him close to Cetronia's torso and lifting him a foot off the ground. The other hand releases his arm, letting it flop uselessly by his side, and then pulls Cetronia's arm further against Altan's neck. His face turns red, quickly darkening as the blood flow is blocked off. There's no way he can get a proper breath in like that.

Valentina and Morganite round the corner in time to see Altan struggle against the girl's grip, to see Cetronia flex as hard as she can. Altan's entire body stops moving as a loud snap rings out. Cetronia rests her muscles and drops him unceremoniously to the ground.

"What the fuck," Luve whispers. How is he dead? He didn't suffocate that quickly, did he?

The two younger girls stare at Cetronia in horror. Morganite looks up and down at Altan's body. Valentina's hands shake as she visibly debates attempting to attack Cetronia with her crossbow.

"You gonna try kill me?" Cetronia asks them, voice level.

Both girls immediately shake their heads.

"Good." With a half-hearted kick to Altan's body, as though pushing away something unsavoury touching her leg, Cetronia turns in the direction of Cyber. "You follow my lead now—no arguments. Hurry and gather the bags left behind."

She leaves no room for arguments. Cetronia strides over to the sobbing cyborg as though she's taking a walk through the park. There is no urgency. There is no malice. Cetronia is, like when Octavia escaped her, a blank mask.

Two dark brown hands hold tear-stained cheeks, almost tender if not for the situation. Cyber looks at her, still not quite able to focus _on her_ , but he seems to know what kind of danger he's in at the very least. He reaches up with a shaking hand— _a shaking robotic hand, Luve thinks grimly_ —and tugs at one of her wrists.

"Why are you crying?" Cetronia asks him. Cyber hiccups— _hiccups, for crying out loud_. Nothing he says, nothing he blubbers out, makes any sense to Luve. Even the Games team has given up trying to translate his words on the bottom of the screen. But Cetronia understands it enough.

The grip on his head tightens. A threat.

"I won't pretend to understand your situation," Cetronia says evenly. Cyber stares up at her with fear in his glowing eyes. "Instead, I will give you a choice. You either die here, let yourself rest and go back to your father's side. Or you live, and you remain by my side so we both leave the arena victorious."

Cyber looks almost offended, like the choice shouldn't even be on the table. Like he already wants to see his father again in the afterlife. But then Cetronia adds, "The wealth of a victor from the Capitol will no doubt help with finding your sister and convicting your uncle."

His hands drop limply to his side. Cyber's expression softens, slowly becomes resigned, and he lets out a shuddering breath.

"Okay," he says weakly. "Yeah. Okay…"

The bloodbath comes to a close as soon as the words leave his mouth. Lola's face flickers onto another screen, commentating about the past few minutes animatedly as the dead tributes so far appear on a leaderboard. Six greyed out faces, Six children who may never see their families again unless some higher power grants them mercy.

Luve almost doesn't notice Selma appearing by her side and tugging at her shirt.

"Luve," Selma whispers hurriedly. "We gotta go before Mom gets here."

She doesn't need to be told twice. With the files held tightly in her arms, disgust gripping her core over the attention she just gave the national pastime, Luve lets Selma lead her out of Malvolia's office.

Distantly, with the events of the last quarter-hour in the back of her mind, Luve wonders if she'll ask Eunice about Octavia's breathing apparatus.

* * *

 **Sponsorship has opened for Ad Mortem, and you can find the points totals at the top of my profile, while the sponsorship form is above the Mortem character list! The has/needs list as well as alliance locations can be found on the arena page of the blog, as well!**

 **Eulogies:**

 **24th Place: Wystan Warwick, C-District 2, 14 - Sent by ThatOtherAsian**  
 **Killed by podium mines set off by Avita**  
Ahh, Wystan, I'm so sorry you were the one who got caught in Gossamer's sights after the sabotages were established. If sabotages hadn't been included and Gossamer hadn't been given as much power as he was, Wystan definitely would've made it a lot further thanks to his skills and status as a Peacekeeper's son. But alas, he was seen as a threat and was taken out to cripple the careers :'( Thank you so much for sending him in, Will - it's fun to write characters with a sense of pride and honour they abide by as much as possible, especially when it comes to seeing how they conflict with others who follow the same ideals and others who are flexible with their actions.

 **23rd Place: Cole Aish (Flare), District 12, 12 - Sent by goldie031**  
 **Accidentally slipped off his podium**  
HGNNGN Cole was tough to kill for me because he'd become such a cinnamon roll? And so many things were looking up for him? HE GOT A DAD HE HAS A DAD NOW! But I knew from the moment I saw that he was easily startled and skittish, he'd probably jump in surprise if someone's podium blew up. Cole definitely helped bring in some of the more heartwarming moments in the pre-Games chapters, and I'm gonna miss writing him from here on out. Thanks for sending him, Goldie - fingers crossed for Quatra in the coming chapters!

 **22nd Place: Tooru Ikeda, District 5, 14 - Sent by CelticGames4**  
 **Killed with a hatchet by Church**  
Another cinnamon roll who was tough to kill. Had they just been a little closer, and had Tooru abandoned the bag sooner, he and Quatra would've been able to escape the bloodbath and make it at least a day in. Writing Tooru had been almost melancholic for me because his self-worth issues and people-pleasing default setting hit so close to home, so giving him the opportunity to flourish thanks to Quatra, Anari and Larius reassuring him and being by his side was something I was glad I could write for him before his death. You did your best, Tooru! Thank you for sending him in, Celtic; the little guy holds a special place in my heart now.

 **21st Place: Jareth Vilna, District 11, 14 - Sent by TheEngineeringGames**  
 **Killed with a morningstar by Cetronia**  
I think we both knew Jareth was one of your three to die in the bloodbath, Lauren, but it's still sad to see this little spitfire go! Telling Gossamer to piss off? Outing Constance's abuse on live TV? Trying to fight Octavia in the bloodbath? Iconic. When will your fave. But for real, all the stuff he's put up with in his life is heartbreaking, and I'm glad he got to eat apple pie before his death. Here's hoping his interview gives aid to the kids at the community centre and raises awareness in the Capitol just how rough the kids of 11 have it! Thanks for sending him in, Lauren.

 **20th Place: Florence Fontana, C-District 12, 15 - Sent by CelticGames4**  
 **Killed with a war scythe by Adrianne**  
Oof, another cinnamon roll slain in the bloodbath… Florence was an absolute hoot to write and her obsession with Lola and Luxor made for amazing trivia for both characters XD Every scene involving this precious girl made a chapter feel so much more relaxing, especially compared to the rest of the drama going on, and that enthusiasm and love of birds will be sorely missed. She didn't even get to see her owl sabotage! But the owl will live on as Florence's legacy, guarding the cornucopia, and until then I hope the little owlet is in a better, owl-ier place. Thank you for sending her last-minute, Celtic, I really appreciate it :)

 **19th Place: Altan Knight, District 1, 18 - Sent by Hoprocker**  
 **Killed by internal decapitation by Cetronia**  
Another proud character! Knight brought an interesting dynamic to the careers with his dislike of District 2, and it definitely made for a lot of drama with Cetronia being picked as a volunteer. He had a good plan that definitely had a chance of working, extorting the loophole about the amount of C-District tributes needed to win, but his downfall came with not only his rivalry with Cetronia, but also Croix and Gossamer helping Cetronia take over the career pack ;-; Great big thank you to Hoprocker for sending him in - he was one of the earliest submissions for Ad Mortem and it was very fun expanding on how the careers operate 26 years after Katniss and Peeta died.

 **And that's our bloodbath. Gosh, this was wild to write! Was it worth the wait? Hopefully we can keep up the momentum when it comes to the rest of the Games XD**

 **I'm really not sure what to say now that we arrived at the bloodbath, so I'll jump into the QQ for now!**

 **QQ #28:** What about the bloodbath caught you off guard the most? (A specific death, alliances, moments of bravery, etc.)

 **See you guys in Day 1, and until then I'll be working on some Aeturnum intros!**


	35. Day 1

**Whoop! Day 1 of the arena! It's a whopper of a chapter, and I hope I can keep up the length for future ones :D As usual, QQ is at the bottom and a quick note regarding placement announcements!**

* * *

 **34 - Day 1**

 **Adrianne Evans, 17, District 4**

Despite how violently her hands shake, how desperate she is to turn back time and make everything right, Adrianne keeps it together. "Together" being a very generous word for how she's coping compared to her allies. But it's an effort nonetheless.

It's all she can do as she sits Simi and Daphne down at the edge of the lake. She drops their supplies softly to the ground, hushing Daphne as she continues to sob. She's not sure how she'll begin to console Daphne, who'd made the tough choice for Adrianne to leave Cyber behind _and_ saw firsthand Cole's death; for now, Adrianne decides, it might be best to try get her clean. Her and Simi.

"It's okay," Adrianne says softly. "You're okay, Daph. You're okay."

Daphne shakes her head. She doesn't even open her eyes as Adrianne picks up the shield the younger had grabbed in the bloodbath, doesn't even question why Adrianne carries it to the edge of the water. Simi takes note, though, and they quietly call out, "Adrianne?"

"Just need to check something, okay?" She kneels down at the lake, careful not to get any part of her wet. She doesn't know if it's safe water, if it won't hurt them upon contact. Simi understands this, too, and jogs over.

"Flashlight," they insist. Adrianne doesn't follow for a time, but Simi takes the initiative for her. They pull one of their three flashlights from the bag, and wastes no time dunking the larger end into the water. "Don't waste our shield. We can live without a flashlight, but not a shield."

"Right," Adrianne wheezes. What was she thinking, about to waste their shield proving a theory? At least Simi caught on before she did any damage, she thinks.

Minute pass, the flashlight staying submerged the whole time. Daphne slowly starts to calm down, her sobs turning into infrequent hiccups and squeaks. Simi looks to Adrianne eagerly before they remove the flashlight from the lake with extra care.

Nothing is wrong with it. It's not even rusting or stained—the water is clean both visually and on a chemical level. Both teens let out relieved sighs. Tension she hadn't even noticed build up in her shoulders melts away in an instant. It's safe. The three of them are safe.

Adrianne dips the shield into the water and scoops the liquid out. "Daphne, over here," she says. Daphne inches closer, sniffles, and finally sets herself down by Adrianne's side.

Washing the vomit off of her shirt and vest is easy. It's all a matter of Adrianne scrubbing at fabric and replacing the water every so often, until finally Daphne isn't as caked in her own breakfast. Adrianne's rather proud of her work, and her confidence is boosted just a little more when she turns for Simi. They shrug off their vest to have it cleaned separately, wasting no time working on the blood on their face and shirt while Adrianne scrubs their vest. The material is water resistant, thankfully, and they're done within minutes of starting their task.

The silence that comes afterwards is hard to sit through. Daphne doesn't sob anymore, worn out from her hysterics at the bloodbath, and neither Simi nor Adrianne can think of what to do next. Adrianne's never felt so out of control before, never felt so out of her depth. For crying out loud, she _killed_ a girl today! She just slaughtered Florence— _Florence_ , who never meant her any ill will and was always so polite and happy to talk to her—when the situation could've been resolved so much differently. No one else was a danger around them. Adrianne could've grabbed a bag and called Simi over, ended the conflict instead of…

Instead of giving the Capitol what they wanted. Instead of throwing away the last of her morals like all of her other friends had. Instead of becoming a _murderer_.

She doesn't even notice her hands are shaking until Simi's close around them. Adrianne's muscles spasm, caught between relaxing in the familiar touch of a friend and tensing at the danger she now poses to her allies. She had to protect her friends, she tries to tell herself. She failed to protect them all, she thinks at the mere thought of Cole and Cyber.

"Adrianne," Simi whispers. She flinches. Her hands don't move from theirs, though. Simi chews their lip and tears up ever so slightly, like what they want to say is almost too hard for them to stomach. She's so scared that they won't feel safe with her anymore. Adrianne worked so hard this week to be a rock for them, to be a support for them in the arena. "I… I'm sorry you had to kill her… All because of me…"

Adrianne shakes her head, opens her mouth to object—it wasn't their fault!—but Simi stops her.

They smile softly, face scrunching up in both relief and anguish. "Thank you for helping me," they croak. "I was too stubborn to give up the bag and—and you helped me anyway. It means a lot."

Adrianne's stunned silent by the back-to-back apology and thanks. It's hard to process just how much her actions apparently mean to Simi, and it only gets more difficult when Daphne squeaks and adds her own piece.

"Thanks for—" She squeaks. "—listening to me earlier. I didn't want to—" Her hands twitch, and then it travels up her arm until finally Daphne chews her lip and forces her tics to stop. Adrianne learned how painful that can be for her, and it breaks her heart to see Daphne do it now. "I'm sorry I made us leave Cyber. I was scared."

Before she can stop herself, Adrianne blurts out, "Both of you, c'mere."

With her two remaining allies right in front of her, shaking and waiting for the other shoe to drop, Adrianne pulls them into a tight group hug and lets out a trembling breath. She killed someone today, but she did it to help Simi. She left behind Cyber, but doing so kept the rest of her alliance alive and protected Daphne from further harm. Cole was not her fault, she keeps reminding herself. Cole was an accident caused by Avita's sabotage. Just an accident.

 _Just an accident_.

Distantly, she wonders if this is what Shell had to tell herself on the first day. If this is what all of her friends had told themselves before they'd died. It feels cruel, the way the Capitol is forcing children to think on a survival-driven level. Adrianne already misses the carefree nature of life back in Four.

The trio pulls apart after a solid minute of embracing. Breathing feels just a tad easier for Adrianne. Daphne doesn't look to be suffering from as many movement tics as before. Simi is the calmest she's seen them in days. And it only gets better as the sound of little parachutes popping open hits their ears, drawing their gazes up to the sky—to the two little packages descending in their direction.

Adrianne jumps to her feet immediately, catching one of them as she leaps into the air eagerly. The other is bumped off of her arm, but lands safely near Daphne nonetheless. Two sponsorship packages. Two sponsorship packages for _them_.

They're all holding their breaths as Adrianne and Daphne compare the weights of the packages. It's hard to tell what's inside with how heavy the packages' outer shell is, but they're so dumbfounded that they can't help ignoring the little road block.

"Who first?" Adrianne asks softly. "I— This one is addressed to Four-F, I think."

Simi leans over her shoulder. The little crest engraved atop the package is in Roman numerals, a way of writing Adrianne doesn't see very often in her daily life. But Simi nods in agreement, running their finger along the little V and I next to the blocky F.

"Yeah," they say. "The V is a five and the I before it means it's a four. Like, 'one before five' and such. Daphne, can I see yours?"

Daphne holds up her package, and lo and behold a crest following the same pattern is engraved on top: _III-F_.

"Lucky," Simi says with a smile. "Daphne and I got supplies, _and_ you two got sponsored. Maybe things will get better."

And Adrianne smiles at the thought, reminded that they're surviving despite their troubles. "Maybe," she agrees. She sets down her package and nods to Daphne. "Why don't you go first? Chronological order, yeah?"

Daphne nods, beaming at her. She's careful to open the package, almost as though scared to break whatever's inside. One hand dips inside to paw at the contents, and then Daphne pulls out her gift with furrowed brows.

It's some kind of breathing apparatus, like people wear when bad chemicals are in the air. Daphne sets it on her lap and pulls out a few more items—three of them, actually, all the same shape and size and seeming to be a perfect fit with the mask's empty filter slot.

All three of them stare in amazement down at the setup. A mask and three filters, so simple yet so _complicated_. Why the mask? Is there something bad in the air? How long have they been breathing it in? Is it from the water or the buildings? _Why the mask and filters_? And why to—

Oh. Oh, she knows why one was given to Daphne so soon. Adrianne feels the colour drain from her face as she immediately demands, "Daph, set up the mask and put it on. There might be something in the air—you'll get the worst of it with your asthma if there is."

Daphne nods, setting to work unwrapping the plastic around one of the filters and clipping it in place on the mask. Simi helps her with securing the mask as Adrianne chews at her nail, anxious about what the gift could mean for all of them in the long run. God, how long will the filters even last? Days? Hours? It fits snugly over Daphne's mouth and nose once they're done adjusting the straps, and although slightly muffled Adrianne can still hear Daphne ask, "All good?"

Adrianne nods. With the mask set up and Daphne's lungs no longer in mortal danger, attention moves to the innocent little package labelled, _IV-F_.

The first thing she sees inside is a note, folded in half and addressed to Adrianne by nickname. It feels like forever since someone addressed her as Chinook last, and it makes her heart leap into her throat at the possibility of it coming from home. Someone from home is holding out hope for her. Someone from home is helping as much as they can, despite the absurd prices the Capitol lists for sponsorship.

She sets down the package and unfolds the note first. Despite how much she wants to know what else they can all glean about the arena from their gifts, she just wants to see who from Four is giving her that extra push to stay in the game.

 _Had to dig quite a bit into company profits to get these. By the time you get this, I'll be sending some of our freshest catch to Cole's father._

 _Hang in there, baby girl._

 _\- Jack._

And God, it makes her curl in on herself and whine so loud, floodgates she wasn't even aware she was holding back bursting open at such a simple note, at the four little letters that make up her adoptive father's name. The note is crumpled and balled up in her hands as her shoulders shake, but it's still in one piece and still a reassurance she didn't know she needed.

The note is passed around the group, and smiles are exchanged all around. Even though Cole's gone he's still being honoured, still being missed. Adrianne can think of no better way for Jack to support Mr. Flare, especially with how great the fish they catch are.

"Another mask," Adrianne lists once the note is back in her hands. "And a filter. Got some bandages underneath, too. I think that puts us somewhere steady on all fronts, yeah?"

"Small bag of food," Simi adds idly. "We can snack at it until we get more."

"And there's bound to be an ecosystem here," Daphne agrees. She points to the lake. "We know it's safe to touch the water, so something might be alive inside. And the buildings used to be underwater, right? Maybe we can survive on the moss gathered on them if the lake doesn't have any fish in it."

"People can eat that?"

Adrianne and Daphne both nod eagerly.

"We're alright with water, too," Adrianne goes on. "It's a pretty large supply, should be easy to dole out equally. Flashlights'll be good for if we want to move at night. And we've got weapons and a shield."

"But not weapons we know how to use." Simi pulls the crossbow from their bag with their nose scrunched up. "I dunno how well you can use a war scythe or how similar it is to a spear, but I don't have the strength to use one of these. Hell, not even the aim. I saw how much Valentina struggled practicing loading one of these in training—they're not easy to use."

Alright, so maybe they're not entirely set on all fronts. But Adrianne can still somewhat wield the war scythe and the shield will more than likely come in handy if they ever get into a scuffle. Like Daphne said, there should be an ecosystem or moss once they run out of food, and water is easy to split between them. Flashlights will help them move at night, avoid other alliances and even explore the buildings for a proper place to sleep.

She looks at the mask and nods. She attaches the filter and announces, "Out of the three of us, I think I have the strongest lungs. I can hold my breath a good five minutes without trying, so I think I'll have the best chances braving whatever is in the air until another mask falls into our hands. Simi."

Adrianne takes their hands and makes sure they firmly wrap their fingers around the mask.

"Let's do our best with what we have. You guys with me?"

* * *

 **Luxor Aricunai, 17, C-District 8**

"How's the leg?"

"I'm fine," Finn grunts. "Just— Hold on a sec, _please_."

He can hear the annoyed click of Calico's tongue up ahead. Luxor shakes it off, sure that it's a reaction to their situation and the supplies they'd grabbed. He helps Finn over to the gates leading to the sealed suburbia of Mason Street, and ever so slowly he lowers his ally to the ground.

They've managed well so far, Luxor thinks as he looks up and down the area. No one chased after them, Luxor managed to shoot Gossamer in the leg in the bloodbath, and so far none of them have died. Luxor would dare to say that his alliance is the only one to not suffer any injuries or losses in the bloodbath, even.

He sets himself down next to Finn and lets out a heavy breath. All that's left is to keep up their momentum and survive.

Luxor looks over at Calico. Ever since they'd joined up at the bloodbath, fled the town hall, he's been distant from them. Not like usual, either—he knows Calico is emotionally distant because emotions make him uncomfortable, but physically. Calico remains at a noticeable arm's length from them and barely looks at them now that they've stopped.

It's kind of like those couples who skirt around an issue and just ignore each other. It's really not how he wants to go about keeping the alliance alive.

He hands Finn the bow and a few arrows, softly telling him, "Just in case. I'm gonna go see if Callie's okay."

Finn nods. He looks worried, too, glancing past Luxor to check on Calico. He must've noticed the distance Calico holds them at too.

Calico's kept roughly six paces ahead of them this whole time, and even when taking a break he doesn't close that distance. Luxor feels uneasy leaving Finn on his own instead of just calling Callie over, but he can't risk giving themselves away. Luxor was barely paying attention to where everyone else went once the weapons and blood started flying; the odds of someone following them this far are too great for him to take any risks.

He doesn't get a greeting when he stops by Calico's side. No, Calico ignores him and just continues unzipping his bag, looting through its contents and taking inventory. Luxor watches him pull out a hatchet, then a small blanket, then a basic medicine kit. He opens his mouth to say something, but stops short at the wicked smile on Calico's face when he pulls out the final item in the bag: A chemistry kit.

"I can work with this," Calico mutters to himself. He pops open one of the latches, only to pause and look up at Luxor. The smile is gone, replaced by a simple mask of indifference. "You need something?"

And Luxor is at a loss for what to ask. He knows what he means to say, but the words just don't come out. It's frustrating.

"You, ah…" He rubs the back of his neck. "You've been…"

Calico raises a brow.

 _Fuck it_. "What's in the kit?" he asks instead. Like a coward.

"The… Chemistry or medicine kit?"

"Either-or."

"Well…" Calico pops the other latch of the chemistry kit and lifts the lid. Inside is a collection of glass jars, each one held in place by material meant to keep them from breaking. Some of the jars have liquids in them, but the vast majority are powders. Calico pulls one of the powders out and gives it a soft shake. "We've got sodium. Don't handle it without gloves unless you wanna severely burn your hands. Actually—don't even eat it. Do not eat any of these. They will not kill you quickly."

He doesn't like knowing that Calico knows these things. This is what he gets for chickening out and avoiding the problem. _Like he'd wanted to prevent in the first place._

Like a dumbass, though, he asks, "How can we use sodium?"

Calico shrugs. "Throw it in someone's face, I guess. Blind 'em."

Dumb idea. Ask something else.

"What about that silver stuff? The one that looks like water?"

And Calico _beams_ at the question. "Mercury!" he cheers. "That'll come in handy if we trick someone into drinking it or even just lace our weapons with it. Doesn't kill right away but it does enough nerve damage to make it a little easier."

"Is… Is there anything non-lethal that might help with Finn's leg?"

As quickly as he'd become elated over the mercury, Calico's smile drops and turns into a scowl. It doesn't answer any of Luxor's questions, but it definitely gives him a little bit of a hint to what's going on: The distance is because of Finn.

Calico's finger brushes another jar of liquid, this one pale pink and clear. "Don't waste the penicillin," he says softly. "The Capitol probably got rid of all the bacteria that could make his leg worse. Save it for when we _actually_ need it."

That's what does it for Luxor. He drops to the ground next to Callie, stone-faced, and crosses his arms in front of his chest. Calico shrinks away, shoulders hunching and head dropping until all he can see through his hair is the chemistry kit. He knows he's about to be confronted over this.

Luxor has every right to do the whole "tough guy" act, but he really doesn't want to. He wants to be trusted and he wants Calico to know this. But most important of all, he wants this alliance to _work_.

So he keeps his voice soft, level, and says, "Did Finn upset you?"

Calico bristles. He doesn't immediately reply, distracting himself with packing away some of the jars he pulled out, but when that's all done he has no choice but to respond.

"He called out my name," Calico mumbles. "He called out my name in the bloodbath. No one is supposed to know I'm not Cham."

Ah. So that's the issue. "Do you remember who was right next to him? When he called out, I mean?"

"Does it matter?" He scrunches up his face and shakes his head. "It's televised and unedited. _Panem_ heard it. Now they're probably going to arrest her and hurt her and I should've just thrown myself at Cetronia—"

"Whoa, hey! Why would you do that? Your plan was really good—we all got out alive, and I even shot Gossamer in the leg. And the chemistry kit got you really excited!"

"But he _called my name_." Calico actually looks at Luxor then. He looks so hurt, so betrayed; most of all, he looks lost. Like he doesn't know what he should do now with the conflicting emotions. "He exposed me to the country."

There's a lot of things he could say. He could try reason that Finn did it by accident. He could try reason that Finn wasn't thinking. He could try reason that Finn was too high on painkillers last night to remember all the details regarding Calico's stunt. But they'd all sound like excuses, and Calico won't trust an excuse.

Luxor sighs and uncrosses his arms. He leans back until his palms support him, allowing him to watch the morning sky and think.

"I don't know what to say," he admits. Calico nods. At least honesty is a good path to follow with him. "But I wanna help you. Help both of you. So I'll talk to Finn, and who knows? He'll probably be mortified that he said it out loud and apologise nonstop. You know how nice he is."

Calico sends him a dry glare. He laughs, a hand clamping over his mouth in a futile attempt to stifle the sound. Calico, to his surprise, softens his glare.

After he calms himself down, he says, "Come sit with us. I'm thinking we might break into the suburbia and crash in one of the nice homes. You guys gotta get a taste of how the other side lives, after all."

"I dunno," Calico says lightly. He nods to the water-damaged, moss-covered buildings. "Looks pretty close to the dump I used to call my secret hideout."

But he packs the chemistry kit back away, and the rest of his loot soon follows. Luxor climbs to his feet, groaning at the ache in his knees, and makes his way back to Finn. The brunette hasn't moved, nor has he looked to need the bow and arrows. When he spots them making their ways back over to him, all of their gear in tow, he smiles at them and offers a hesitant wave.

Calico sits himself down right next to the gate leading to the suburbia, and he wastes no time opening the medicine kit and asking, "How's the leg feeling?"

Finn shrugs. "Aches, but that's not a problem."

Like before, Calico clicks his tongue in annoyance. "It _is_ a problem. You'll irritate it to the point of not being able to move it and exhaust yourself sooner." He fishes through the kit and pulls out a small pill box, which he chucks unceremoniously at Finn's chest. "Aspirin. You're lucky they include those in the basic kits."

It's not a comfortable silence that follows, but it's far from the tense distance they'd had before. Calico spends his time sorting through the medicine kit, shoving the more immediately needed medicines into the front pocket of his bag and leaving the others—like the anti-rash creams and cough medicine—in the kit. Luxor helps Finn decide how many pills to take, and he holds on to the packet for him once they determine how long he'll need to wait for the next batch. Despite Calico's curt tone, he's helped a ton today.

"Thanks," Finn says after a time. Calico looks over at him, already slinging his backpack over his shoulder while his other hand holds the hatchet. "For not leaving me behind back there. I'm just… I'm sorry if I slow you guys down."

Calico's grip tightens on the hatchet. The gap between Finn's statement and Calico's response is just a tad concerning. "It's no problem," he says eventually. "Just don't do anything stupid."

As much as he wishes this _wonderful_ conversation could keep going, Luxor can't help the relieved exhale when he looks up and spots the first lot of sponsorship packages descend upon the arena. Some fall back as far as the cornucopia, while others head near the lake they'd passed. Only two fall in their direction, and Luxor's heart leaps into his throat when the parachutes deploy.

He points up, forcing Finn and Calico's attention to the sky, and he stands ready to grab one of the packages. He jumps, barely drags one down, and announces who it's for once he sees the little _VIII-F_ on the top.

Calico's brows rise to the top of his head when Luxor announces it. The other package lands just a foot away from him, bearing the same designation, and all three of them are at a loss for words. Calico—or rather, Chambray—must be popular back in the Capitol. Luxor's honestly a little surprised nothing came for him yet.

"Eenie-meenie?" Luxor tries, pointing between both packages. Calico just blinks at him tiredly and picks up the one at his feet.

He pops open the lid, and a wave of panic rushes through Luxor at the sight of the first thing Calico pulls out. It should be harmless. Why would a water bottle be harmful, after all? But it wasn't sponsored to _Luxor_ , and he can only imagine the countless ways Calico will be hurt if he pops it open and takes an experimental sip.

Luxor snatches the bottle from Calico. Calico drops the package in surprise, and for the first time today he raises his voice. "What the hell!?" he demands.

"Don't drink it," Luxor gasps. His hands shake, gripping the bottle so tight that he wonder if it'll burst. "I'm begging you, don't drink it."

"What's going on?" Finn asks. He crawls over to them, peeking around both boys to try and find out what's happening. "Why can't he drink it?"

Calico's eyes never leave Luxor's face. Not even as he bends down and reaches into the package for the accompanying note. Not even when he stands back up and unfolds it. It's only when he begins to read it out loud that Luxor starts drowning in his dread.

"It's all your fault," Calico reads aloud. "You know what to do."

His mind goes into overdrive. Who sent the note? Did they know about the sabotage? It had to be a mentor or an escort or… A Gamemaker? Luxor hears the bottle bend and lose its shape in his grip. Which Gamemaker? Did they send it to Calico with the intention of killing him? Who would hate him enough to do that? Who would call Calico's situation his _fault_?

Who would waste Luxor's sabotage for a personal grudge?

Calico folds the note in half and walks over to Luxor. Without warning, he shoves the note against Luxor's chest and leans in close, whispering just low enough for only the two of them to hear, "Signed by Darios Aricunai."

His heart sinks. His lungs constrict. His legs give out.

His dad basically told Calico to kill himself. His _dad_. His _Gamemaker_ dad. One of the few people outside of his allies and Morganite who know his sabotage—cyanide in the first sponsored water outside of his own. And he _wasted it_ on a grudge.

"Hold on to the water," Calico says, voice flat. He's back to the closed-off, distant Calico from before. All the effort put into making him feel comfortable… wasted… "Maybe we can trick someone else into drinking it."

Calico picks up the package Luxor had dropped in favour of stealing the water. He pops it open and pulls out the goodies—a mask, plus three filters—and then takes a moment to read over the note. His scowl only grows, and he kicks open the gate to the suburbia while muttering, "More shit gone wrong for us."

Luxor looks over his shoulder in time to see Calico toss the note behind him, its crumpled state landing a few feet away from Finn. The two boys outside the gate huddle close, wondering what other harmful things had been sent to Calico, but instead they find a note from Charlotte.

A reassuring note, but it's not her reassurance that concerns them.

 _You're determined, so I won't sugar-coat my words like I did for Luxor's. Follow the same instructions his gift has. They'll pay off._

 _\- Charlotte_

"What gift?" Luxor wheezes. He looks back up at the sky. All of the packages have landed already, safe with their respective owners. All but his apparent own. " _What gift?_ "

Through the gates he can hear Calico kick open the door of a nearby home. The groaning of the wood and amount of dust that flies up into the air is tremendous.

"Someone stole your stuff," Calico calls out. He doesn't sound upset over it. He doesn't even sound empathetic over the possibility, over the salt rubbed into the wound. "That's all there is to it."

* * *

 **Valentina Teagan, 16, C-District 1**

She's used to things changing in a heartbeat. It's how she likes to live life, always jumping from one thing to another without time to catch her breath. Always on the move. Always in search of her next adventure.

But for the first time in her life, Valentina thinks she might have gone through too quick a change. It's… Well. "Scary" feels too weak a word for her situation right now.

The cornucopia has a lot of things for them to use and consume over the next few days, more weapons than they'll probably ever need. Their alliance is only one person smaller than before, but it's missing three core members all the same. The uneasy way Morganite looks from Cetronia and Cyber, then to Valentina, shows just how much her faith in their survival has waned after the bloodbath. Back with the original group there was a sort of carefreeness to their interactions. Knight let them do what they want and Wystan offered tips for the weapons they chose to wield, and Florence would talk animatedly about owls to fill the silence between training sessions.

Cetronia inspires fear. She doesn't emote as easily as Knight, doesn't anger or become smug as easily. The most she's seen is mercy, and even that was directed at Cyber more than the girls she'd hijacked the alliance of. Speaking of Cyber—well, it's jarring to see the emotionless child become hysterical and withdrawn, looking more bitter than Valentina thought possible.

So she keeps her distance. She sticks to Morganite's side, crossbow held in her hands and waiting for any stragglers to try and take the cornucopia from them. And Valentina just finds herself waiting for the day to pass.

"This blows," Morganite mumbles. They're behind the cornucopia, keeping watch of the windows in case someone dares to sneak back in. Cetronia and Cyber hold the fort out the front, but Valentina doubts anyone will be stupid enough to try the front door.

"Yeah…" She shifts on her feet and heaves a sigh. "Feels like all our sabotages just got wasted after all that. Knight barely even used the sword."

"Should've used my sabotage to arm you with a crossbow when we launched," Morganite agrees. She kicks at a knife someone had dropped during the scuffle. It splashes barely-drying blood over the floor. "Would've gotten more use than that dumb sword."

"We would've done it if we didn't lose everyone before the end. Wystan and Knight were going to be the close-quarters, the rest of us just kept the others away. Just Knight on his own wasn't enough."

"Yeah."

Their whole plan really just went up in smoke before the countdown had even ended. Valentina can't help holding it against Avita. Can't help blaming Avita. Everyone else knew that Gossamer and Croix were bad news during training. How was she the only one to completely overlook the fact? How was she the only one to trust them so willingly?

It's unfair. It's unfair that she got away so easily, without facing any punishment for her foolishness. Now Morganite and Valentina suffer thanks to her mistake. Now they don't know how long they'll live, if they'll even see their families again.

"At least we have yours," Morganite adds. "I mean… Unless you hijacked a dead kid's sponsorships…"

"No," Valentina says quickly. She's absolutely certain her sabotage will get some use at least one day into the Games. Before other people pick up on it, at least. But even then her sabotage acts as a double-edged sword for her target: They never get their goodies, and once people realise they won't, they cease to be in the public eye. They fizzle out in silence, unarmed and starved. "He's still alive. Can't believe I forgot we still had that on our side."

For the first time since the bloodbath ended, Morganite smiles. "Not so lost after all."

"Not yet."

"Hey!"

They both look to each other at the new voice joining the conversation, distant and lacking the accent they've come to associate with Cetronia. Morganite leans around the corner of the cornucopia for a moment, then pulls back and sighs, "Cyber."

He meets them halfway as he gathers a few bags of food along his trek. He doesn't look as distraught as he had earlier, when things were still fresh in their minds—but he still doesn't look relaxed or even at ease with his situation. He looks stressed, and it's not an expression Valentina's used to seeing on a twelve-year-old's face.

"Cetronia wants to talk about your sabotages and how we'll operate," he says curtly. It's a shocking tone to hear from the once monotonous and polite boy. "She said… You're allowed to bring weapons if you don't feel safe."

Morganite scoffs. "How kind of her."

"At least you know how to use some of these things," he grumbles back at her.

"Oh, like _you'd_ need a weapon. You're a walking tank or whatever." She gestures to his whole body, more than likely referring to his metal skeleton. Valentina can't disagree with the point being raised. Cyber's basically indestructible compared to the rest of them. Just how much of him still counts as organic—as a person?

But arguing is going to get them nowhere. The last thing Morganite and Valentina need is to be kicked out of the alliance—or worse, killed for crossing Cetronia. "We're all still in the same alliance," Val tries. "Who knows—maybe we can make it all work in each others' favour? A—And Cetronia might be reasonable!"

Cyber looks at her dubiously. "I'd call her logical," he corrects her. He picks up a small karambit from one of the overturned knife racks. He doesn't look too certain about the weapon, but he takes it all the same on his way back to Cetronia.

The conversation is over, and the girls are left with two very simple choices. The first is to comply with Cetronia's demands, see what kind of plan she has in mind to utilise all four of their skill sets. The second, risker by a mile, is to simply climb out the windows with as many supplies as they can hold and survive together, the last of the original career pack. Morganite and Valentina look at each other, equally dismayed at their options.

Morganite bends down and picks up a bowie knife from the floor. She weighs it in her hand and tucks it into the pocket of her pants, before finally she looks back over at Val.

"Wanna get it over with," she says. She sounds so certain and ready to face Cetronia that Valentina has to compose herself just to even _think_ of doing the same. Just confronting someone feels so harrowing now. Can she kill? Can she defend herself? She's not even sure if she'll be able to do any of the fighting she'd trained and prepared for.

She follows close behind Morganite as she ponders this. She can't just abandon her last ally, least of all if something goes wrong.

Cetronia is deep within the cornucopia when they arrive at the entrance, already setting up a sleeping area with all of the supplies left behind. A mound of blankets and pillows, sleeping bags opened wide and connected together and draped over the top like a comforter. A perfect little nest for them to sleep in, while still having enough space to feel as though they're in separate beds through the night.

It's the last thing she expects to see Cetronia constructing—right after Cetronia actually tucking herself into the pile, stifling a yawn as she lays eyes on everyone. If not for the small lantern she'd strung along the slowly dipping ceiling, they'd never see her in the darkness to begin with.

Cyber sits by the entrance with his karambit and keeps to himself for the most part. Valentina does the same, only moving further inside when Morganite does.

"You had a plan in mind?" Morganite starts. Cetronia nods. She lays back down on a small pile of pillows, propped up just enough to stop herself from dozing off during their talk.

"I've no idea how similar it is to your original plan," she says, "but I'd still like to go over it, all the same."

"Then shoot."

"I'm at my best when the sun goes down. I was trained to hunt in the cover of night, where I'm best camouflaged by the environment, and considering the colour schemes of the buildings and arena uniforms it'll be especially effective here." She nods to the town hall outside, where light flows freely through the windows and illuminates the building's interior. "I propose you three stand guard during the day, allowing me time to sleep and hunt from dusk until dawn for other tributes. You've seen how strong I am without a weapon, and you no doubt saw what I did _with_ one. It would be child's play for me to catch other alliances unaware and kill them once the sun goes down."

Cyber doesn't look over at her. "What if they attack during the day? I don't have experience with weapons and the best I can do is rearm the mines under the podiums. Valentina works best at a long range, and Morganite only knows how to use knives."

"How would _you_ know all that?" Morganite snaps.

"I pay attention," Cyber hisses. "Do you think I had anything better to do in training other than watch everyone else and talk to my allies? _Seriously_?"

"No one will be stupid enough," Cetronia cuts in loudly. "If it would make you feel more at ease, be my guest and rearm the mines. Scatter them under the windowsills to stop someone sneaking in. I doubt anyone will risk attacking us during the day, though, when they aren't aware of how we'll operate. They'll assume we're going to be every run of the mill career pack, and they'll stay away."

The argument dies down with her explanation. Why would it continue? Cetronia has a very valid point, and she's done nothing in training to hint at this talent of hers. All anyone knows is that she's strong and took over the biggest alliance in the bloodbath. She is, as far as Valentina is concerned, the biggest wildcard in the arena.

"Now," the older girl goes on, "tell me about your sabotages. And if there are any other sabotages you're aware of, let's look at those as well."

Morganite is quick to say, "Mine was the sword I launched with. The one Knight came at you with."

Cetronia hums once. "Unfortunate."

"Mine was my emotions," Cyber sighs. "They gave it to me—the harddrive—for a token, but they didn't give me a way to reinstall them. So I used the sabotage to feel… Human, I guess." He chews his lip. "I almost used it to help Ham, but I wasn't sure if she'd survive the bloodbath."

Before Val can say her own, Morganite jumps back in. "Oh, Luxor. I logged my sabotage at the same time as him—don't drink any of the water that gets sponsored to us. He poisoned the first batch sent unless it was sponsored to him."

"So he got the clean water on day one," Cetronia notes. She shrugs and snuggles deeper into her blanket pile. "Not bad. Didn't expect something like that from him."

Neither did Val. Three sets of eyes go to her next, and she debates telling the three sabotages she knows of—her own, Florence's, and Simoleon's. They'll find out eventually that she hijacked another person's sponsorship goodies, as well as Florence's owl, but they'd never know about Simoleon unless they targeted that specific alliance. And if they never knew, and went on to target Simoleon specifically…

Valentina sucks in a shaky breath.

"I only know my own and Florence's," she lies. "Florence requested a large owl mutt that guards the cornucopia. I asked to hijack a specific tribute's sponsorships. Whatever they get, it's sent my way and not theirs. You'll know it was meant for them because it'll still be labelled with their District."

Cetronia bolts upright, a small smile on her face. "Oh?"

"It's, ah… I hijacked Luxor Aricunai's sponsorships. We might only get things from the first day, and everyone stops sponsoring him to avoid buffing us, but one day of it is enough, right?"

"More than enough." Cetronia grins broadly at her then, more than likely elated at the news. "Luxor was a threat to sponsorships. You've basically forced him to rely on his alliance's sponsorships from here on out. Excellent thinking, Valentina," she adds.

As if on cue, a dull thud come from outside the cornucopia. It sounds like metal hitting the wood floor of the town hall, and Valentina's heart leaps into her chest. Cyber, who has the best vantage point for the outside world, lets out a small sound of surprise.

"Sponsorship," he simply says.

Morganite sprints out to gather the package. The silence as they wait for her is unbearable. Valentina can't even look at Cetronia—proud and eager—while Cyber taps his foot against the ground impatiently. She thought she'd be excited over receiving gifts from fans (even if it's not technically meant for her right now), but all she feels is a knot in her stomach that only gets tighter by the second.

She just wants this to be over now.

Morganite comes back inside with a package in her arms. On the top of it, engraved it the metal casing of the lid, is the number Val had suspected upon hearing its arrival: _VIII-M_.

Luxor's sponsorship.

It's handed to Valentina without hesitation. She jolts at the offering, eyes bulging wide, and Morganite has to clarify, "It's technically your sabotage. Makes sense for you to open it."

And that knot just grows in size, doubling and then tripling and then quadrupling _and is that even a word_ —

Her hands are on the package without her even realising. Fingers dig into the lid, pop it open, and she can almost smell the difference in air being released from the package. Cleaner. More like home. More familiar and safe.

Away from here.

Her hands shake as she pulls out a single air mask. Underneath it are three packaged filters, much like the ones they'd found among the backpacks left out the front of the cornucopia. She can't figure out why something like this is needed. She's not sure she even wants to know why.

"There's a note," Morganite reminds her. She's peeking over Val's shoulder, curious. "Want me to read it?"

She manages a jerky nod as she sets down the mask and filters. They face her directly, almost as though judging her. Valentina has to look away and recompose herself again. They're inanimate objects. They're not capable of judging. They're not even alive.

 _(Just like she thought Cyber to be.)_

Her gaze shifts to him warily as the thought strikes her. How much of him even still is human? Just a few organs? A damn fingernail? Was he even a real child to begin with? How can any of them be sure his "father" didn't come up with an elaborate AI and give it a child's body and memories?

Morganite unfolds the paper. Val looks jerkily back at her, shoving the thoughts from her mind. No, speculating all this won't do her good. In the end Cyber was reaped, and he's still a tribute like the rest of them. The extent of his humanity doesn't matter when he's been listed as one of twenty-four tributes.

"Okay, uh. 'Don't stop picturing the person you would give everything to be with. Make sure you get out of the arena for their sake.' It's from…" Morganite blanches at the name at the bottom of the note. "Oh. It's from his mentor."

That's… It's oddly intimate advice. Atticus never gave Valentina encouragement like that—never gave her a motivation outside of sponsorships for inside the arena. Even Morganite looks a little surprised.

"Sentiment," Cetronia notes. Everyone looks to her then, only to see her close her eyes and snuggle under the covers again. "Everyone has different mentoring methods, I guess. Wake me when it's dusk," she adds blearily.

And they're left in silence. The girls don't immediately leave the cornucopia. Cyber doesn't immediately head for another area to sit by himself. They all just look at each other, at a loss for not only words, but what to do from here.

* * *

 **Phyllis Hamilton, 18, District 7**

"Octavia, I swear to _God_ —"

"Shut up! I'm _moving_!"

"I wasn't built for stairs! I wasn't built for stairs _with a chunk of my stomach missing_! I wasn't—"

" _I get it, Ham!_ You weren't built for stairs! You're tiny!"

She lets out an offended, indignant groan. She knows she's being a pain in the ass right now, but _fucking Christ_ she's in so much _pain_ right now! She didn't think Cetronia would break the shield when she hit it! She didn't think it'd go through her clothes! She didn't think she'd actually be bleeding from her side like _a fool_ —

"I'm too bitter for this shit—"

" _Ham, shut the fuck up!_ "

They stop on the top floor of the clothing store, finally free of the dreaded stairs, and Ham can only collapse to the carpeted floor with a whine. There were a million better ways to handle that bloodbath. One of them being just _stacking two shields_ and jumping in the middle.

She wants to believe she's overreacting, but she knows the difference between a knick and a gash. What she has under her shirt is, quite possibly, beyond a gash.

Octavia is wheezing and doubled over, hands on her knees while her mask hangs loosely around her neck. Ham can't even figure out why the hell Octavia even launched with one, let alone what it's for, but it's not really in the forefront of her mind right now. No, that goes to the _INJURY ON HER GUT FROM CETRONIA_.

"I'm being as calm as possible," Ham wheezes slowly, "and I'm going to ask right now: Can you _please_ check the bag for medicine or something?"

"Are we talking now?" Octavia croaks.

And Ham takes a special kind of offense to that. She may be, as Ewan calls her, a "useless lesbian" at times, but she's not the one who started the avoidant silence last night. She's the one who ended it with her agonised screaming, if anything.

"I don't know," she snaps, " _are_ we? Or are you going to clam up and avoid me again? Because I'd like a heads up if I'm being left to bleed out on a perfectly fine carpet."

Octavia throws the bag at her. It bounces off of her head, obscuring her view. Octavia sucks in an audible breath and quickly picks it back up. "Sorry," she mumbles.

Ham squeezes her eyes shut and chews her lip. They're disasters. How many other alliances would be yelling at each other and fighting over not talking while one of them's injured? Definitely not Gossamer and Croix— _no_ , they're too fancy and refined and smartassy for basic teenage bullshit. She's not sure how someone had managed to shoot Gossamer in the thigh today, either, but she can imagine it was through dumb luck. Dumb _good_ luck. Definitely a different calibre to Ham's dumb _bad_ luck.

"It's fine," she sighs. She starts trying to wedge her arm under her torso, hoping to push herself onto her side. Fingers get snagged in the torn fabric. Her nails brush against the wound. " _Shit_ —"

"Stop squirming," Octavia orders her. A pair of hands grips her by the shield on her back and toss her unceremoniously to her side. Ham groans (she definitely felt a little skin tear at the movement) and limply drops onto her back once Octavia gives her a final push.

It's a little easier to ignore the pain now that she's on her back. Ham brings a hand up to her face and rubs at her eyes. "Thank you."

"Thank me when we find out if I grabbed a decent bag." She hears a zipper being undone, followed by some rustling. And then Octavia lets out a disappointed grunt.

" _What_."

"Only bandages. No disinfectant or stitches or staples or anything. I mean, there's a knife." Ham opens her eyes in time to see Octavia pull a knife, suited for cooking more than hunting, from the depths of the bag. "If you want me to mercy kill you, I mean."

"Fuck off."

"Didn't think so," she sighs.

Ham reaches down for her vest and unzips it. "Can you at least take a look at it? We might be able to get away with just bandages."

Without any objections, Octavia sets down the bag and carefully reaches for the hem of Ham's shirt. She knows they're supposed to be thermal and all that junk, but the way it clings to the injury and the surrounding skin is agonising in Ham's opinion. At least Octavia removes it inch by inch, rolling it as she goes along. Ham can't see the extent of the wound while she's on her back, but the air hitting it undisturbed gives her a good estimate.

Cetronia really went all out with that swing at Octavia. The kid from Eleven would've been PG compared to how Octavia could've wound up.

And Ham went and took it through a shield like a champ. A stupid, petty little champ.

She hears Octavia click her tongue. It's probably not a good sign.

"Probably get, like, one use out of them? It's not too big, but it is deep," she explains. Ham scoffs. One extreme for the other. She may as well have been stabbed, for all the damage Cetronia did. "If I cut the bandages in half we might get two days' worth? But it'll be thin."

"How bad's the bleeding?" Halving it won't do any good if she's bleeding through them too much.

"One of scale of one to five, I'd rank it a—" Octavia pauses abruptly. She doesn't continue her rating, her attention slowly turning away from Ham's wound. Ham goes stock still. Did someone follow them here? Who else came to the plaza? Are the careers already hunting them down?

Octavia crawls a foot away from Ham and whispers, "Hang on a second."

She does her best to track her movements without making her wound worse. Ham cranes her neck at impossible angles, watching the taller girl crawl along the floor and in the direction of one of the windows. There's too many possibilities for what might be going wrong right now. Did Octavia see someone enter the plaza? Did something move past the window? No, that's dumb. They're on the second floor of a clothing store. Who would be dumb enough to climb a building instead of take the stairs?

Octavia's almost flush against the wall next to the window now. Ham's never seen her move so slowly, with so much purpose. It's almost torturous waiting for Octavia to say something, _do_ something, but she soon takes notice of what Octavia had spotted before. Hooked on the sign next to the window appears to be a parachute, and when the wind blows particularly hard Ham sees the outline out a package dangling from the parachute's string.

"Holy shit," Ham whispers. Octavia hums in agreement. Certain no one is outside, she stands up and works on untangling the parachute from the sign.

Ham doesn't expect her to return with two packages. Hell, the fact they even got _one_ is a surprise.

One of them is labelled with _X-F_ , while the other is labelled _VII-F_. One of Octavia, one for Ham. It seems both of them have someone supporting from afar.

Ham pushes herself into a sitting position, and it's the biggest mistake of her entire life—but she keeps going, because she wants to open her own damned sponsorship. Someone might have seen her get hurt helping Octavia. Someone might have sent something better than bandages.

"Careful," Octavia says. She doesn't tell Ham to stop, only nods to the chair in the far corner of the room. She sets down the packages and grabs the chair, and leaves Ham's pride intact enough to hoist herself up onto it. "You good?"

She's really not. "Yeah," she wheezes.

"I'll open yours first. It might have medicine for you."

And then Ham glares at her. She makes grabby hands at the package, her face scrunching up in her best attempt at a snarl. "I'm a big girl," she growls. "Gimmie my stuff."

Octavia rolls her eyes. She sets it down on Ham's lap, and Ham wastes no time prying it open to see what kind of goodies she got. She hopes it's a sewing kit. It'll hurt like hell, but DIY stitches are a thing she thinks Octavia could do. Probably.

Okay. Probably not. Ham will admit that she has no idea what goes on in a butcher shop. It's probably less putting meat together and more hacking it apart. _She hopes it's not a sewing kit_.

She pulls out the note first, too scared to see what horror of a medical tool she's been given. The first thing that she notices is who it's signed by, recognising one of the names but ultimately at a loss for the other.

"From Maggie and someone named Dianne?" she tells Octavia. She ignores whatever reaction Octavia has, choosing to at least read what Maggie has to say to her tribute.

 _Honey has healing properties_.

She scrunches up the paper and throws it across the room with all her strength. "Oh my _God_ ," she groans. "What kind of cryptic _bullshit_ —"

"What'd it say?" Octavia presses.

"Honey has healing properties—what the _fuck_ does that even _mean_ —"

And then Octavia snatches her package. Ham complains loudly, but it doesn't have any effect. No, Octavia just ignores her and pulls out the small jar of honey from the package, eyes widening with each passing thought.

"Ham," Octavia says flatly. It really doesn't match the hopeful look in her eyes. "Honey has healing properties."

 _Fuck's sake_.

"And that means _what_?"

"It means you're gonna be a glazed ham for the day."

Ham hopes she hallucinated that response.

Octavia pops open the lid of the jar.

Oh. She didn't hallucinate that response.

"I don't think I appreciate the food pun," Ham starts. Octavia sets down her package and reaches for the backpack. The bandages are pulled out, and she quickly unravels a good half-foot of the gauze. With her knife, she cuts off the six-inch gauze and shoves it into the jar of honey. "But I think I appreciate your idea a lot less."

"Stiff," Octavia grunts. She motions for Ham to lean forward a bit, to give her access to her torso so she can wrap the bandage. It takes surprisingly little time for the honey to soak into the gauze. Ham can't even bring herself to look when Octavia pulls it out and smacks the gauze against Ham's wound.

She does, however, let out a very uncomfortable sound. She's not sure how she expected honey to feel on an open wound, but it's definitely not _this_.

Octavia wraps the rest of the bandage around Ham's stomach afterwards. It makes about six loops around Ham, a light layer covering her wound and holding the honey in place.

"This is very weird," Ham complains. Octavia ignores her. "The hell did you even know to do this?"

"I'm poor and from a District that specialises in food originating from animals. Did you seriously expect honey to come from anywhere _other_ than the livestock District?" Octavia clicks her tongue. "For shame, Phyllis."

Ham just grunts at her. "And this'll…?"

"It works best to fight infection," she explains. "I used to hurt myself back when I started working at my dad's shop, and the knives weren't always clean—like, they'd had raw meat on them when it happened. And Dad would put honey over the wounds so they didn't get infected. They stop it from getting inflamed, and the scarring once it heals isn't as severe."

As though showing off an example, Octavia holds out her hands. Ham can only see faint scars, the most prominent one peeking from under her right sleeve.

"All of these except for the one on my arm had honey put on them. Unless you know they're there, you don't notice them."

It's… It's reassuring to hear. The morningstar had already been bloodied, and there's no doubt something on it could've infected her wound. If she can rely on the honey to eliminate that problem… Well, maybe she'll give it a try.

"Kinda also clots the wound," Octavia goes on. "But the sheer density of it makes that obvious."

"Alright. Enough about my miracle honey and your fancy bee farms in Ten." Ham gestures to Octavia's package. "What'd you get?"

The look on her face makes Ham wonder if she'd forgotten her own package so soon. Octavia scoots back over to it, pops the lid open without so much as a second glance, and sticks the hand with less honey on it inside.

There's a mask identical to the one Octavia launched with, free of a filter and looking ready for use. Ham leans forward, curious about why another mask was sent to Octavia, but quickly recoils when she feels the honey-gauze shift. God, that's uncomfortable as hell…

Octavia sets the mask on her lap and pulls out one packaged filter—then another, and another. Octavia eyes them suspiciously as she reaches in one last time. All that remains is a note addressed to her.

"The fuck?" Octavia mutters. "Isn't that the Head Gamemaker's surname?"

"Who sent it?"

"Someone named 'Luve Nero'. Lemme just—" She wipes her hands and unfolds the note properly, ready to read it out loud. "'Please stay safe with Ham for as long as you can. Split the masks and filters between you. The air—' Holy _shit_."

" _What_?"

Octavia scrunches up the paper and throws it in the same direction Ham had thrown hers. Unlike Ham's anger, though, Octavia does it out of horror.

"Can't even get away from it in the Games," Octavia mutters quickly. "Where'd they come from? How the hell did they even get the approval for this? I made it so _clear_ —"

"What's wrong with the air!?" Ham screeches.

Her shrill demand seems to break Octavia from her panic. Octavia hurries to fix her mask, to put it back on and over her mouth and nose. Then she's frantically tearing at the plastic packaging around one of the filters and clipping it onto the other mask.

Ham barely has time to fight back as Octavia shoves it on her face and tightens it, effectively filtering her air for her.

"What the fuck, Octavia?" Ham yells. Octavia sinks to the ground next to Ham's chair. She shakes her head, and eventually cradles it in her hands.

"I hate that I have to know this," Octavia growls out. "I _hate_ having this association. The air's poisonous, Ham. The longer we breathe it, the more damage it causes our lungs. And my fucking _stylist_ was in on it—"

She cuts herself off with a snarl. Octavia reaches haphazardly for the package her note had come in. It almost rolls out of her grasp, but she dives for it and pulls it back to her spot.

Only to hurl it at the window with a roar. It breaks off a few jagged shards of glass on its way out, and even Ham can hear it bounce against the pavement in Flanagan Plaza. This is, without a doubt, the most angry she's seen Octavia.

And Ham was literally right next to her last night when she broke a glass with her bare hand, unflinching.

So she knows it'll be futile to try to calm Octavia down. At best she can reassure her and tell her it'll be okay, that whatever's going on may be a one-time thing. It's hard to believe herself, though, when things only serve to get worse.

At first it's a faint sound. A distant bird's cry. But then it gets closer. The light shining from outside is blocked out by a passing form. A deep, guttural screech that sounds more like a dog whimpering than any kind of bird Ham knows of. She looks past Octavia, who freezes in place, just in time to see the wings flapping through the air. She sees brown feathers mixing with grey. She sees an impossible size for an impossible bird, but it's right there—right there, flying in the direction of the cornucopia and sweeping up loose debris in its gusty path.

"Shit," Ham says. Because really, what the hell else is there to say to that?

* * *

 **A relatively peaceful day with plenty of angst and yelling! How's that for a nice break?**

 **Alright, with regards to the placements in following chapters, I _won't_ be writing them if they happen during the day. The placements will be announced during the night chapters, where they'll be acknowledged by the Gamemakers in-universe. Bit out of the way, but it fits with some events I have planned and keeps us on our toes over whether or not someone actually dies in a scenario!**

 **QQ #29:** Which alliance in this chapter do you think has their shit together the most?

 **Till next chapter!**


	36. Night 1

**First night chapter! Lemme know what y'all think, and do keep in mind I finished this at like 5am dfkgnksdfnds**

* * *

 **35 - Night 1**

 **Gossamer Wormwood, 17, C-District 10**

"Annoyed" feels like too kind a word to apply to how Gossamer feels right now. So does "angry", perhaps even "frustrated". They don't do the fire within him justice, nor do they convey just how much displeasure the injury to the back of his thigh brings him.

No. The word Gossamer wants is _livid_. He's livid that someone had dared strike him. He's livid that it wasn't even a career who'd done it. He's livid that it was the ditzy bitch from the modelling industry who took the privilege of injuring Gossamer. He's _livid_.

"I'm going to kill him," Gossamer seethes. Croix doesn't even bat an eyelid at the statement. Why would he? Gossamer's said it countless times over the last few hours. It's not new information at this point.

Croix wipes off moss from the table Gossamer's seated at. The government building is surprisingly well furnished, all damage considered. Most of the chairs don't immediately snap when weight is put on them, and the dining room has a surprisingly minimal amount of water damage. It's like the building was best prepared for a tsunami compared to the rest of Elysium. Gossamer can understand why—politicians would be more important to ensure the safety of, and sensitive documents might be preserved if proper safeguards are in place.

Speaking of important documents, he thinks. Gossamer shifts on his chair—winces as the wound behind his thigh rubs against the bandages—and fishes the map from his pocket. Sponsorship on the first day had been a surprise, especially after all the drama that's going on with everyone else, but he and Croix still couldn't help the devious smiles they'd broken into when Gossamer's package— _Gossamer's_ —was opened. He unfolds it, lays it down on the now clear table, and lets out a contemplative hum.

Whoever sponsored him _knew_ he'd want revenge against Luxor for striking him. Gossamer won't go so far as to say he's thankful, but he definitely knows an opportunity when he sees one. Croix takes a seat next to him and sets their backpack down on the table. He sifts through it, pulling their flare gun out, and casually loads it with one of their two flares.

Gossamer is talking more to himself than to Croix as he scours the map, fingers drumming softly against the surface of the table.

"We started off in the town hall, judging by the placement of the lake," he mutters. He taps the small square indicating the town hall, finger slowly tracing along the street they'd emerged onto. "We come out via Augustus Street, enter the west side of the building…"

Croix rises all of a sudden, flare gun loaded and delicately placed on the table. Gossamer pays him no mind as he heads towards one of the messy offices.

"Avita left through the south of the town hall—passed the lake? Unless another cannon goes before the end of the night it's safe to assume she left before Adrianne occupied it. Ugh…" Gossamer rubs his brow. "That's a loose end we'll have to tie up sooner or later. I know the pair from Nine followed Augustus Street opposite to us…"

A small lead pencil comes into view. Gossamer startles, looking up to Croix with wide eyes, and goes to argue as Croix begins doodling on the map with it. But Croix anticipates this, telling him, "Your pal Octavia went to the plaza. I could hear them arguing while we climbed the stairs. Considering her little outburst over Quatra's interview and her family tree, it's obvious they've been followed, too." With careful handwriting he marks the vague areas with _OH_ and _Q_. He quickly follows up with the rest of the alliances Gossamer mentioned, and by the end of it there's a semi-decent map of where everyone is assumed to be.

Gossamer lets out a soft snort. So maybe he forgot that Croix actually has a working brain. Gossamer can't be blamed when he's so used to working with brain dead sheep.

"So," Croix goes on. He leans back into his chair, which groans under his weight like a threat. "The question is where we go from here."

"We kill that ditzy bitch," Gossamer growls immediately. He's been saying it all day—how has Croix forgotten that already? Or does he just not care? Oh, Gossamer will riot if it's the latter. There's plenty of room to be petty with his shit list now that he's in the arena, and his ally is no exception.

Croix huffs. "Perhaps I should clarify," he drawls. He shoves a hand into the backpack and retrieves their one breathing mask, filter connected already. "I meant with regards to the arena. No only do we have an unseen threat in the air, but we also have the owl girl's pet avenging her by the cornucopia. And unless you've a literal rapier wit, I doubt we'll fare long against the bird."

Smartass.

"Some Games allow for tributes to have midpoint items from the get-go," Gossamer says matter-of-factly. It's hard to forget the twist from the final twelve in the Eighty-Ninth Games; the outlier from the career pack that year had stolen a bag from the cornucopia, and the climbing gear within had saved his life when the ground had split in two. "There may be something happening once we reach the final twelve. I would bet a demolition or something from the lake—anything that pollutes the air and can kill us from the inside out."

"Fair." Croix looks up a the ceiling with a contemplative face. "This stuff was built prior to the second Snow's rise to power. Could've been built with the aspetine alloys everyone had to have removed from their homes."

"That'd explain how all the buildings maintained their shape after an earthquake," Gossamer agrees.

"Could also be toxic as we speak," Croix adds. "The Capitol had to undergo that whole health check before any houses could be opened up. If the mask is just for the mid game twist, then we'd be hoping for a fast Quell for our own sakes."

Gossamer doesn't want to admit it, but he's right. Aspetine alloys sent the Capitol into a scare and it's only just now been deemed illegal to construct a building from. If this colony predates Celestia Snow's presidency, then what use is there delaying the end? Aspetine takes a while to actually wear down a healthy person's lungs, but once it starts it's a long, _long_ process just to recover. Not to mention all the tests to make sure it doesn't develop into lung cancer…

He picks up the pencil and chews his lip. "The career alliance was crippled bad, but we know Cetronia won that fight," he says. He draws a line through the streets, leading from the government building to the town hall. "I'm betting they have plenty more masks in the cornucopia, and Cetronia owes us for the alliance we gave her. More than that, we're Capitolites—she won't kill us on sight unless we try to kill her."

"But the owl will."

And then Gossamer points to the flare gun. "I don't know shit about owls, but if we shoot the flare right at its face then we'll have a small opening to sneak into the town hall. How long do flares take to light up, anyway?"

"Roughly a second or two." Croix leans forward and raises his brows. "This might actually work, holy shit."

"Alright. We blind it and run in. Easy as pie."

Except there's every chance it might not be. Gossamer doesn't know anything about owls other than that they're pretty decent night hunters, even during the day. He doesn't even know how big this one truly is, how much the flare will have an effect on it. He glances at Croix, certain that the other teen thinks the same thing—how can he not? He's not dumb like Sol, and he's not driven by his emotions like Octavia. Croix's analytical like Gossamer, and he'd be a fool to not cast the same doubts on their plan.

He even sees it in his eyes as the map is folded back up and placed in the backpack. Croix doesn't really want to go through with the plan, but the only alternative is hunting for tributes themselves. And with what, Gossamer thinks? Neither knows what to do with a spear, and he really doubts just shooting someone with the other flare is going to do much good.

"All we have to do in the meantime is avoid being eaten," Croix says softly. Gossamer hums. There's any number of simple agreements he could make, any number of plans he could throw out there to brainstorm avoiding such a fate.

But Gossamer is the one in charge here. The one in charge always has to be the most confident.

"You'd have to be a fool to let yourself be eaten by a mutt like that," he snorts.

* * *

 **Avita Clements-McMillan, 15, C-District 11**

Her stomach gurgles and groans. By this point she can't figure out if it means she's hungry or if she's going to throw up again. She isn't sure she wants to know, either.

Gossamer had lied to her. He'd said Wystan would just be sent home, back to his family so he could continue training to become a Peacekeeper, and she believed him. She _killed_ for him. If he hadn't convinced Avita to use her hair clip on someone else—if he hadn't talked her into helping someone else—she would've been the one to simply hop off the podium.

Avita looks down at her bloodied hands. They shake and shake, her stomach gurgling all over again. It'd be _her_ blood on someone else's hands, then. No body to send back to her mothers, not even a few organs to donate to the needy. She'd be a pile of mush that inconvenienced the people next to her and clung like a bad smell until they could find something to bathe in.

And to top it all off, like a little cherry nestled neatly on the spire of whipped cream, she's taken refuge in _Abernathy Lane_. The street named after the worst victor, from the worst District, in the worst Quell. All of the puke she'd decorated one doorstep with probably made it nicer, she thinks bitterly. She should've counted herself lucky she represents District Eleven. She's their only hope for a victor now, considering Twelve was eliminated in the bloodbath.

( _Partially because of your gullibleness_.)

She tries not to think about the fact that, just the night before, Cole had been adopted. She tries not to think about the fact that she took two kids away from their parents, one of whom didn't even get the chance to use his new name. She tries so hard, desperate to keep the thoughts from consuming her.

Her stomach gurgles again. Her physical state may be the only thing helping to keep reality at bay.

Avita sucks in a deep breath and squeezes her eyes shut. She grinds the palms of her hands against her eyelids until she sees stars, and she holds their position for a while. Soon she's almost blinded by the flashing and the lights, and it's only when half of her sight returns that she moves from her spot. She stumbles and shuffles out of the front yard of the house on Abernathy Lane, back onto the footpath and in search of a more stable building to hide in.

It's as she turns for a house with a worn down picket fence that Avita's full vision returns—almost to the end of the street entirely, right on the cusp of entering Foster Court. As much as she hates her situation, with all its downward spirals and betrayals and tricks, something about it feels like home. Being in Elysium, an island that was built for Capitol use and housing, reminds her of the streets she'd walk with her brother on their way home from school. The structuring of the houses and the faded, yet still dream-like look to them is so close to her own home, she half expects to see her mothers open the front door and welcome her inside.

Avita hiccups. She's sure she'd cried herself dry before the sun went down, but here she is with just a little bit left to streak her face again. Maybe it's because it looks like home—like somewhere she knows is safe—or maybe it's instinct, a hunch, but Avita pushes open the water-damaged picket fence and wanders onto the property.

The front door even has the same design her own home has: Thick wood the colour of sap, a large semicircle window just above the peephole. This door is hanging by its lower hinges, half blocking the entrance, and the glass from the window litters the doorstep like a welcome mat. Unable to help herself, Avita wipes the bloodied soles of her boots on the glass. They crunch and flick about, but it helps bring some normalcy back to her frantic state. Once she's satisfied, Avita climbs over the door and shuffles in through the lobby.

She wipes at her face with her sleeve as she wanders through the house. It must've been for a small family, she thinks, which is exactly what kind of family she comes from. She can pick which room would belong to who, where she'd see Florentina taking care of some show poodles. When Avita peeks into what could be a study, desk thrown against the far wall and mouldy paper lining the floor, she can imagine Varinia working on an article she's excited to submit.

Avita misses her mothers. She misses them so much. She wipes at her face even more, rubbing the skin raw, and snivels pitifully.

"Wanna go home," she whimpers to the empty study. She doesn't get a response, the rest of the arena indifferent to her wants. It only makes her whimper more. "Miss my moms…"

Another gurgle sounds out, and this time a pain in her stomach follows. Avita crumples to the floor and wraps her arms around herself within an instant. That isn't nausea, she thinks. That's definitely hunger. Avita chews her lip and reaches down for her pants, where her little knife sits in her pocket. She hasn't had to use it yet, so certain that someone would come after her when she ran to the bathroom in the town hall, but now she wonders if she may have to.

She crawls out of the room, back into the hallway, and slowly makes her way to the kitchen area. Most of the stuff in this house has been overturned, but maybe… Maybe an inbuilt pantry survived. Maybe cans of beans survived, or pet food or _anything_! At this point she'd take anything…

The cramps have only escalated by the time she reaches the kitchen doorway, and all of a sudden Avita has a whole new world of respect for outer District tributes. They'd go for _days_ like this, undisturbed, all because of how little they'd been fed back in their homes. Pudgy, Capitol-born Avita could never go as long as they could if she tried to fast through the Games. Jareth could've lasted so much longer than she is right now.

But Jareth isn't here now, she reminds herself. Avita's in this alone, and until someone takes pity and sponsors her something, she has to handle this on her own. Avita crawls over the cold tile and searches lazily through the immediate area. There's an overturned fridge, the door sealed off against the floor, and some of the cooking utensils are scattered over the floor haphazardly. Avita heaves a sigh at the sight. There's a pantry on the far side of the room, doors wide open and spoiled food scattered all over the shelves.

Her heart sinks at the sight. All of that food, unable to be eaten. Some of them have little mould cities growing on them. Her stomach gurgles and gurgles some more, almost tempting her to give it a try anyway. Food may be spoiled, but it could still be edible, right? A little stomach ache is nothing compared to dying of hunger, right?

Avita smacks herself on the arm. No, it's not better! What if the mould kills her? Worse, what if it kills her slowly? She doesn't want that kind of suffering, not if it'll be worse than a few hunger pangs.

She turns to the fridge and blinks at it. They're heavy appliances, but if she can just push it onto its side and open the door…

Avita drags herself along the floor with a newfound determination. She _will_ push over this fridge, and she _will_ make an effort to eat. If she doesn't find food here, then she'll tough it out for another day. Drink water from the toilet or something—anything to stay hydrated so she doesn't die of thirst. But she has to put in an _effort_ first.

She wedges her fingers under the fridge and steadies her breathing. On three, she thinks as she positions her feet beneath her. One, two…

The moment she pushes, hoping to lift the bulky side of the fridge, her feet slip out from under her. Avita squawks as her entire body slides to the floor at rapid speeds, and she doesn't even have time to pull her hands back and shield her face. Her nose slams against the tile with a loud crack, and all of a sudden warmth begins to coat her face at a startling speed. Avita screams, the sound so nasally and pained that even she thinks it comes from some kind of bird at first, but soon the blood dripping down her chin and the ache covering her face make it abundantly clear that, yes, it _is_ Avita making this ungodly sound.

Wiping at her face with her sleeves doesn't help much. If anything it makes the pain worse, the blood more difficult to keep from spreading all over her face. The skin around her eyes and the bridge of her nose aches, but she isn't going to stop now. Avita spits blood from her mouth and glares at the fridge.

"Not yet," she tries to say, but it sounds so different from what she means. Broken noses really make talking difficult. " _Not yet_."

She rushes at the fridge and throws her weight against it. More blood pours from her nostrils, but she ignores it and hooks her fingers under the door again. Her head feels light, her face so hot and numb, but she's not giving up. She _will_ see if there's something she can eat in this fridge tonight, even if it causes her to hurt herself more.

Finally the seal gives, and Avita hears a rush of air coming out of the fridge as the bulky side slowly, ever so slowly, lifts off of the door. Glass jars, shattered and with condiments spilled everywhere, topple out around her feet, but they're not what Avita zeroes in on as the body of the fridge falls to its side. No, her eyes are on something much better—something with much more hope than she'd ever thought possible.

Never has a can of coconut water looked so beautiful. Unbroken, still in good condition thanks to the cardboard box it'd been packed into with a dozen others. Avita snatches at a can, undaunted by how lukewarm it feels. It's something to drink. She won't cast it aside for simply being too warm.

She pulls the knife from her pocket and jams the tip into the thin seal beneath the tab. It hisses, settles, and Avita gives it a solid three seconds before she lifts it to her face and drinks as best she can.

It tastes so amazing. Despite all the blood dripping onto the can and mixing with the coconut water, it tastes so _beautiful._ She takes a moment to breathe, attempts to wipe at her nose again, and finishes off the rest of the can.

She may have lost all chances at allies, believed everything Gossamer had told her, _lost all sponsorships_ , broken her nose—but at least she's alive for another day. At least she isn't going to perish just yet.

* * *

 **Quatra X, 14, C-District 5**

The loud shout in the distance startles her away from her backpack. It doesn't last for long, fading after a few seconds, but it leaves her cautious nonetheless. She's not sure what kind of mutts have been released since the owl's appearance, and she's not too excited to find out for herself. She has more important things to worry about. More important things to do.

Quatra resumes looking through her backpack once she deems it safe to turn her attention away from the street. There's not a lot to use offensively, if she's honest, but there's plenty of things she can use to her strengths. She counts the flash grenades for the umpteenth time, making sure all four of them are safely tucked in the backpack. She shoves aside the packet of dried oats, which would be perfect to have if only she'd been given water. She repositions the metal pot just barely pushing against the bag's limits—out of everything, it makes the most sensible improvised weapon. Finally the empty water canteen, which almost serves to taunt her more than anything. It's not the ideal bag, in Quatra's opinion, but it's the bag she's been left with regardless.

She removes one of the flash grenades, moves to zip up her bag; Quatra pauses when she glances at the pot one more time. She pulls it out as well and sits the flash grenade inside it, then wastes no time shouldering her bag and making sure it's secure. There's a reason she's in the Quell. She can't afford to take any chances, no matter what.

Staying as far from Octavia as the street outside Flanagan Plaza was a good idea, especially since Quatra had to focus on making sure she knew her whereabouts if someone didn't kill the teen in the bloodbath. Her mind flickers back to that morning, to the carnage that had unfolded before her. The people she had to watch die. The ally she just abandoned.

Guilt is not something Quatra is familiar with. Spies don't _feel_ guilt. Perhaps they doubt, or even feel concern, but they don't experience guilt. Guilt would turn the spy into a rebel. Guilt would render them useless to the Capitol, and thus on the same level as a regular person from the Districts. But while Quatra doesn't feel guilt, she does feel regret. She regrets getting close enough to Tooru to let him trust her. She regrets promising to stay by his side and ally with him. She regrets pretending like she wasn't reaped through some ulterior motive. Most of all, she regrets not yelling at him to just drop the bag and run. She'd been _right there_ , picking up her own bag, but fourteen years of training and following a mission just took over in that instant. Quatra wasn't able to be the ally she'd promised to be. No, Quatra was just the spy the Capitol employed to make sure a rebel's spawn didn't win the Quarter Quell.

And God, she regrets being that Quatra so much.

Her duties take her so many places, let her see so many sights—District Four had been so beautiful, so blue, when she'd lived there—and now it feels like it's all come to a halt. Quatra doesn't get to be the aliases she'd assumed, like calm and responsible Camelia Caballo. No, she's back to being another member of the X family, ready to serve no matter what.

She wishes Tooru had gotten to know Camelia. She doesn't know if he'd like Camelia more than Quatra, but she knows it'd be easier to accept his death that way. Much like she doesn't entirely miss Goldie and her brother Bo while she's Quatra, maybe she wouldn't regret leaving Tooru behind as Quatra. It'd be Camelia's friend gone, not her's.

But that's not how things have turned out. She just has to accept that.

Quatra turns for the sponsorship package that had landed a mere hour earlier. She's one of the few to receive something once the sun began to set, and it's close enough to Octavia's position that most paying attention would assume it was for the girl from Ten, not someone else. She pops open the lid and pulls the mask out, already aware of what the note says. She'd read it when before most of the sun's light had vanished, her mission reinforced by her superiors. Quatra puts on the mask and makes sure the filter is on securely. She tucks the spare filters into the front-most pocket of her bag, kicks the package into a barely living shrub outside the home she'd stopped at.

Now or never, she thinks. Quatra pulls the flash grenade from the pot and puts it in her pocket, careful to make sure her improvised weapon doesn't make any sounds. She takes one step, two, in the direction of Flanagan Plaza. Her eyes are glued to the clothing store Octavia and Ham are holed up in. Glued to the window she'd seen Octavia reach out of for their packages.

Should be an easy plan. Throw the flash grenade in, wait for it to go off. While Octavia panics and runs downstairs to prevent someone from coming up, Quatra climbs the wall and comes in through the window. She's not sure how badly Ham's injuries are, but she'd heard the complaints and pained sounds even from the distance she'd kept from the duo. One-on-one fight, with maybe a chance to take out half a competitor.

This is her mission, she reminds herself as she pulls the pin from the grenade. Quatra rears her arm back and keeps her fingers clamped tight around the clip. She lines up her shot.

If she can't stop rebellion from winning, can't keep them from rising to power, then what's the _point_? What's the point of all her training? All her second lives? All her siblings' attitudes towards her? Most of all, what's the point of Tooru dying?

Quatra throws the flash grenade with all her strength. It flies to the window, lands inside without even clipping any glass left along the panes. If she can kill Octavia tonight, stop her from winning, then at least Tooru won't have died for nothing.

She turns away just in time to hear the grenade go off, light flashing from inside the room and two very confused, pained shouts ringing out. Quatra sprints for the building's cracked and exposed brick wall and she _climbs_. No matter how much her nails peel and her feet slip against the weak surface, Quatra climbs. She pulls herself higher and higher, listening as Ham screams for Octavia to be careful—that she can't see—and she reaches for the window pane without a shred of hesitation.

Glass digs into her palms as she pulls herself up, and a piece is still lodged inside one of her hands as she throws herself into the room. Her feet land on the floor, her good hand reaching for her pot.

"Oct!" Ham yells. "Window!"

She knows they can't see her just yet, but Quatra doesn't take the risk of staying in one spot for too long. She moves along the creaky floor with her pot ready to strike, eyes flickering out and about for Octavia's presence.

Quatra doesn't anticipate the chair that comes flying at her from across the room. She ducks, listening to the wood snap and shatter against the wall. "Ham, stay down!" Octavia yells.

When Quatra spots her, she sees unfocused eyes and staggering, uneven footfalls. Octavia is very obviously suffering from the effects of the flash grenade, her ears ringing and her eyes cloudy, but she's still kicking despite it all. Quatra lifts the pot and breaks into a sprint in Octavia's direction. If she can strike her head, steal her knife, maybe she can end this quickly. End this before Ham regains her sight and pursues.

But Octavia also remembers she has a knife, and she pulls it from her pocket wildly. The blade is flung left and right, Octavia moving forward at a steady pace as she slashes at everything and anything in front of her.

"When I can see even a _little_ ," Octavia snarls at empty air, "you're _dead_!"

Quatra doesn't doubt her. She keeps her distance, carefully backs away from any lethal slashes, until finally she finds herself back near the window. She kicks at some of the wood that had broken off of the chair, making certain she won't trip over it—and then something else comes flying at her, just barely missing her head as she ducks at the last minute.

The package that had held one of the girls' sponsorships sails out the window and lands in the courtyard outside with a loud bang. Quatra looks over at Ham, stunned to see the girl already recovering and looking blearily at Quatra. And then hands land on her shoulders, shoving her hard in the direction of the window.

Octavia still can't quite see right, but she's got Quatra cornered at the window with very little chance to jump out of the way. She considers just tackling the girl despite their difference in strength, maybe lashing out with her pot, but when push comes to shove Quatra is given no time to decide. One rubber boot sole lands hard on her stomach, and her feet fly out from under her. Quatra feels herself falling back, hears the glass get caught on her vest. One second there's a dark room with two enemies, the next there is only the night sky.

Quatra's fall isn't clean or fatal in any sense. She gets caught on the flagpole outside, her body flipping from headfirst to her side as she tries to soften her fall. She hears rather than feels the pop of her shoulder when she lands directly on it first, but she definitely feels the crack of her skull against the pavement just at the store's doorstep. Blood rushes to the wound on her head, a small pool already forming around her.

As consciousness fades and failure sets in, Quatra hears Octavia yell down to her, "It pays to be observant, Camelia!"

* * *

 **Epsilon Church, 17, C-District 9**

 _This may be all you're getting_ — _use it wisely_.

He stares at the note with growing anxiety. It's such a simple note, a simple warning, but it feels like the weight of the world is on his shoulders. This is all someone can spare for Bel. He doesn't even know if someone's attempted to use his sabotage to help Sarah.

Church scrunches up the note and throws it behind his shoulder. It's darker now, harder to see, but at the very least he and Bel know where the other is thanks to the younger teen's insistence she hold on to the corner of his vest. Bel follows without complaint, eyes focused more on her feet and making sure she doesn't trip over them in the dark. He's glad she's okay. He's glad she trusted him and kept her eyes shut in the bloodbath. That she trusted him to get to her side in one piece and get her away from it all.

He pulls her along the street, hatchet gripped tightly in his other hand. They've been on Augustus Street all day today, resting while the other alliances got their bearings, and now Church thinks it might be best for them to move on and find a decent hiding spot. There's plenty of homes with attics they can inhabit. There's even a whole park they can hide in and forage for food.

Bel is quiet behind him as he leads her to the end of the street. With any luck the careers will all be asleep and they can sneak off without anyone noticing. Perhaps they'll even try avoiding catching the owl's attention in case it turns on them—there's every chance, which Church childishly hopes happens somewhere down the line. It'd give the careers a taste of what it feels like to be helpless, to not know what to do as chaos unfolds in front of you.

It must be late into the night when the sky opens up and lets out a soft chime, tuned to the anthem of the Capitol. Church pauses. He knows the arena plays little picture based eulogies for fallen tributes, but he never paid attention to the first day deaths. He always assumed the bloodbaths were noted outside of the arena, never within, but here he stands as he watches the presentation unfold.

Bel lets go of his vest and reaches for his hand instead. Church clasps it softly, reassuring her, as they both look up at the light in the sky detailing the fallen tributes.

First flashes the face of Altan Knight, a shock for Church to see but a relief to know is gone. He'd made an enemy of Knight, he knows it, and Bel getting caught in the crossfire would kill him. After Knight is Wystan Warwick, another shock, and then it's Tooru Ikeda from Five. After Tooru is Jareth Vilna—so unnoticed, yet at the interviews he'd left the biggest impact on Church thanks to his act of exposing his caretaker. Church knows the satisfaction of such an act. He hopes Jareth felt proud before he'd died.

After Jareth is Florence Fontana, the kind owl girl who'd been so excited to meet Lola. Her smile looked so similar to Bel's, Church notes with a lurch of his stomach. Bel's hand tightens around his own, almost as though reading his mind. He doesn't have it in him to watch as Cole Aish's face lingers in the sky. As much as he's doing this for Sarah, for Bel, it's too much to stare at faces that didn't deserve to die.

But then, he'd killed one of them. And Tooru never deserved to die. He couldn't harm a fly, passing out due to a panic attack in training one day.

Bel tugs on his hand again, and this time she lets out a distressed, "Uh!"

Church looks down from the sky just in time to see what's wrong, the light of the final announcement illuminating the street for a few more seconds. He thinks he's seeing things as the shape in the street registers in his mind, but then he remembers that _Bel_ had noticed it first. He's not hallucinating or falling prey to tricks of the light. The seconds tick by, both the Nine pair and the figure at a standstill. Church scans the form, watches the spiked weapon with apprehension.

He didn't recognise her at first. She's not in her full arena uniform, but now that he knows the weapon she wields, he knows it's her: Cetronia. Clad only in her thermal shirt and a black cotton blanket around her waist, she stands shoeless in the middle of Augustus Street. Her morning star is held casually in one hand while the other shields her eyes from the light in the sky.

Church holds his breath. Bel is frozen in place. Cetronia just watches them with the eyes of a predator.

His heart sinks when the light fades entirely. When Cetronia becomes invisible under the cover of darkness once more.

Church wastes no time grabbing Bel and sprinting around the corner into Odair Street. He can hear Bel hiccuping in his ear, terrified, and even Church can feel some of that fear right now. His heart is thrumming in his ears, his eyes adjusting to the darkness once more, but it's not enough. He needs to see _more_ , needs to know where he's going. He needs to know where Cetronia is! He can't even hear her footfalls, her shoes gone and her bare feet too silent.

The morning star makes a harsh clash with a house at the end of Augustus Street, but it misses the duo by a good few paces. Church is thankful Bel can't hear the suspense, especially when being silent and hiding is so crucial right now. They can't run into any houses in case the floorboards and glass alerts Cetronia. Church looks up and down the street, at the multitude of houses spanning the back wall of Elysium.

Odair Street must have alleys, right? Church feels the panic rise as he pushes himself to run faster, to outrun Cetronia—wherever she is—and get Bel to safety. Somewhere to hide. Anywhere! _Please!_

His eyes, like a miracle, adjust right in time for him to see a gap between two buildings. Small enough for Bel to wedge into, maybe for Church to follow. Church sets her down and hurries her over to the gap, and Bel immediately shimmies inside and clamps a hand over her mouth. Church goes to follow—and then pauses.

He doesn't have much time until Cetronia finds them, so he reaches into his bag for the first piece of medical supplies he can grab. Church cringes as he pulls out a small jar, probably one of their Capitol-made anti-bacterials, and his face pinches into a grimace when he throws it further down Odair Street and hears it shatter.

But it works. Before Church even has a chance to fully wedge himself into the gap, hatchet at the ready, he hears Cetronia's feet softly hit the ground as she runs past. He's holding his breath, eyes wide as he's left in the open and Cetronia continues down the street. If he doesn't move, doesn't breathe, she won't know he's there.

Church stands stock still for upwards of a minute before he hears Cetronia again, and in a panic he wedges himself fully into the gap. He takes Bel's free hand and holds his hatchet at the ready. If Cetronia sees them, hears them here, he'll do his best to fend her off and let Bel run with their pack. He doesn't want to die here. He refuses to just _die here_.

"Tread carefully, Nine," Cetronia half-yells into the street. Church squeezes Bel's hand tighter, and she hiccups once more. She silences herself again, this time smothering her face with her thermal shirt's neckline. "No one can hide forever in a Hunger Games."

Seconds pass. Minutes. Church stands there for what feels like an hour, Bel's shaking hand clasped in his own, and he refuses to move. Soon he finds the hand with the hatchet trembling. Soon he finds his breaths to be unsteady. Soon curiosity takes him and forces him to peek outside.

The street is as empty as it had been before they'd spotted Cetronia. He can't hear her movements, can't hear her attack in the hopes of striking them. He can't hear or see her anywhere. She's either mastered her camouflage, or she's gone. Moved on to another target. Church really hopes it's the latter. God, he so hopes it's the latter as he inches out and brings Bel with him. He _prays_ that Cetronia has moved on, further into Odair Street and beyond, as he picks up the quivering Bel and backtracks to the break between Odair Street and Quanta Street. Loathe as he is to admit it, hiding close to the cornucopia now might not be the worst choice to make. The houses have attics. Cetronia will assume they've moved on to the park after tonight.

Bel is muffling her sobs into his shoulder as he hurries back to Quanta Street. Church takes his time picking just the _right_ house, with a door out of the way and a bed calling their names. He finds one at the intersection of Quanta and Lyme Street, and he wastes no time jogging inside and searching for the stairs leading to the attic floor. He climbs them two at a time, trips once—Bel whimpers, almost as though scared he'd been struck by an unseen force, but Church reaches up and pats her head reassuringly.

The attic feels almost like a sanctuary when he reaches it. Church lets out a defeated, yet blissful sound. He shuffles inside, makes sure to set Bel down, and then Church's knees give out beneath him. He sinks to the floor next to Bel, accepts her hug without hesitation. One encounter with Cetronia and he feels like he discovered the true meaning of fear. Like he looked his worst nightmare in the eye against his better judgement.

Church and Bel lay down on the cold floor of the attic. They don't separate, relying on each other for warmth. They simply lay there as they shake and comfort each other. If this is the danger they face in the night, Church shudders to think what Cetronia has planned for the day.

* * *

 **There's our chapter! Our first whole day is done, and no one died after the bloodbath! Very interesting, eh? Here's our QQ since I gotta skedaddle to bed asap, but I still want to see what tickled y'all's fancies this chapter.**

 **QQ #30:** Whose POV stuck out to you the most in the chapter and why?

 **I'll see you all next time in Day 2 of Mortem's Games!**


	37. Day 2

**Hey all! Pride month has come to a close and I hope you all had a good time! To those who didn't, I hope you get to experience the pride month you deserve sometime soon!**

* * *

 **36 - Day 2**

 **Avita Clements-McMillan, 15, C-District 11**

Morning brings a whole new pain. It brings dryness to her throat, swelling to her eyes, throbbing to her nose. Avita groans as softly as she can while she pulls herself up into a sitting position. The couch she'd crashed on after splurging on coconut water is stiff and overall uncomfortable. But it gave her a full night of rest, and that's more than what Avita can ask for at this point. She's grateful to have survived till now. She's thankful she found the coconut water and had enough to settle her stomach.

Morning also brings opportunity for Avita, though—an opportunity she will never stop being thankful for, especially after the horrific first day she'd spent in the arena. It's a miraculous sight to wake to, bringing tears to her bruised eyes and clogging her broken nose all over again. Avita hobbles over to the porch door just outside of the living room and she wastes no time pulling it open, removing any remaining walls between her and her sponsorship gift. Avita honks down at it. She quickly shuts her mouth, embarrassed by the sound, but doesn't stop her journey to grab it. Stiff fingers grasp at the string connecting the parachute to the package—it says _XI-F_ on top, it's really for her!—and Avita wastes no time in prying it open. She wastes no time thanking the empty space around her as she yanks out the note and the plastic bag of trail mix.

Avita tears into the plastic bag and shoves a handful of pretzel and raisin and walnut into her mouth. It tastes so good, like she's been sponsored the finest of snacks from the Capitol, and it brings her to tears once again since finding the coconut water.

The note just serves to make her more emotional, the plea she'd made the night before flashing through her mind.

 _Don't give up. Keep fighting. We believe in you, Baby Girl._

It's the first she's heard from her mothers since the reapings. That's almost a week, she thinks with dawning horror, and she never realised how much she needed their encouragement again until now. Varinia seeing her off by telling her she was going to do amazing feels so long ago, feels so far from the truth—but the simple reassurance she's been given today feels much, much more honest. Believable.

Avita's not sure where the cameras may be in the room, but she makes an attempt to face a likely location anyway. With her eyes glued to the ceiling, hovering near the corners, Avita wipes at her eyes while trying to keep from irritating her nose.

"Thank you," she honks up at the corner. She grips the bag tight and pushes the note into her pocket, nestled safely next to her knife. "I'll do my best. I'll come home, okay?"

There's no indication that a camera has noticed her, or that what she's said has even reached people's TVs, but Avita feels a weight removed from her shoulders just from saying it out loud. It feels good to know she's got people supporting her. It feels good to tell them she appreciates them.

With all that's happening right now, everything that has happened so far, Avita makes some pretty tough decisions to follow through on. The first is securing actual allies, bargain with District kids who might not have a Capitolite to get them out of the arena. The second is learn how to use her knife, actually defend herself if someone attacks her. She can't stomach seeing more blood, more death, but what choice does she have? She wants to go home—her mothers and brother want her home! How else can she get there without killing someone?

Every time she thinks back to how Barley had done it, she always remembers that horrifying tree that hung the career who'd chased him. Barley technically isn't free of death, and right now Avita isn't either. It hurts to have to add more to her count, but this might be the only way for her.

Avita seals the bag as best she can and sticks it in her pocket for later use, just in case she gets hungry again. She pulls out her knife, hands still shaking at the thought of actually using it, and she lets out a shaky breath. Things are going to be tough from here on out. It's going to push her to her limits—that much she knows for certain—and Avita has to remember what she has waiting at home for her.

She keeps her mothers' and brother's faces in the forefront of her mind as she navigates her way through the house. Avita tiptoes over the glass, around the front door, and she takes a few moments to breathe in the morning air. Day two in the arena, she thinks weakly. Lord knows how many are left.

She's so certain that things will prove to be challenging from here on out that she barely even registers the sight of another person in Foster Court. Avita had been convinced that no one else was in the area, but she sees the hobbling form all the same. She's stumped for what to do—this shouldn't happen so soon after actually deciding to make allies—and while she figures out her next step, the form continues hobbling in her direction. She's been noticed, and she's being sought out.

If she's being sought out, no weapon visible on the hobbling tribute, then that means this person is in the same boat as Avita. It's more than enough to convince her to call out a snuffly, "Hey!"

She hears a weak shout in response. The person continues hobbling over, visibly limping now, while Avita jogs painfully slowly over to meet them. She's not sure who she expects to see, nor does she know what to do once their identity sinks in. Avita just knows that Quatra X is in as much trouble as she is right now, perhaps even more once she sees the state of her head and the way her arm hangs limply by her side.

It breaks Avita's heart, seeing and knowing that someone hurt her like this and _left her_. She knows Quatra only had the kid she shared a District with for an ally, but there's no way she'd done this—the head injury, the shoulder injury, the limp in her leg and shallow breathing—to herself for the sake of it. So when she and Quatra are close enough to hear each other despite their injuries affecting their voices, Avita offers out a hand and says, "Lemme help you."

Grey eyes appraise her, one almost too swollen shut to do more than twitch, but Avita can see the debate going on in Quatra's head as she considers the offer. She can understand why she won't bite, why it'll be difficult to just blindly say yes. Avita did it, and look how that turned out. That's probably Quatra's whole counter argument right there.

Quatra continues to hobble, her backpack close to dragging along the ground. Avita's almost convinced she'll walk past, ignore her, but then Quatra chucks the bag at Avita's feet. It lands with a clutter, a few filters spilling out from an open compartment of her bag.

"Food…" Quatra wheezes. She has an audible deflation to her voice, like she's a balloon constantly trying to maintain its shape with a hole torn into its side. "In'th… bag…"

Avita picks up the bag, checking inside. Quatra's correct—a bag of rolled oats, nestled underneath a pot that's been hastily stuffed back inside. All of it waiting for something to make oatmeal with.

"I—I've got trail mix," Avita tells Quatra. The younger girl just looks at her blankly, like the words aren't quite registering. "Are you hungry?"

Quatra sways on her feet. She blinks, one eye at a time, and lets out a long, wheezy breath.

"Q—Quatra?"

"Hur'z," Quatra slurs. "'Ead."

She's not sure what she's trying to tell her, but Avita can make some pretty decent assumptions. The blood in her hair and along the side of her face, over the swelling, may be dry and caked over, but it had to come from _somewhere_. Avita stuffs her trail mix into the bag and sets it on the ground. She inches closer to Quatra, pacing herself, and keeps her hands where the younger can see them.

Quatra lets out the most childish whine she's ever heard when Avita carefully, _carefully_ probes at her head for an injury. Her face contorts, her body sways backwards in an attempt to get away, and Avita has to shush her as soothingly as possible just to figure out where the injuries are. The reactions give her a vague idea of what's going on: Dislocated shoulder (that's what the limpness means, right?), a big injury to the same side of her head (don't concussions happen like that?), and some sort of injury to her torso (unless the wheezing is because of something else, or if she's suffering from sudden appendicitis?). It's pretty dire even if Avita can't figure out the delicate side of it all.

Dire enough that she shuffles to Quatra's side and pulls the girl's good arm over her shoulders.

"Ma'h," Quatra protests. Avita ignores the defiance, adamant to get her to a best so she can rest. Maybe she can find something in the house she slept in, or make some bandages out of some clothing stashed away somewhere. That works in real life, right? Not many tributes in previous Games have done it, but the movies always have people doing it! And movies have to be as realistic as the Hunger Games, right?

"C'mon," Avita mumbles. "Let's, uh… How about we get a soft bed for you?"

That gets a hum from Quatra. She sways some more, but thanks to Avita's grip she runs no risk of falling over. Avita's at a loss for what to do. She's never had or seen others with injuries this severe before, which means she most certainly doesn't know how to treat them.

It feels almost like a miracle that she hears the call from Mason Street, right where it merges with Foster Court. Avita looks over at her second human encounter for the day, relieved to see someone unarmed and rushing over in what looks to be concern. She urges Quatra to hobble along with her, earning a few complaints from the girl, and soon she finds herself meeting their new guest halfway. Almost right away she drops her backpack and flutters over to Quatra's other side, concern laced in her voice when she asks, "What happened?"

"I—I don't know!" Avita chokes out. She hadn't realised how emotional she'd get, seeing someone who might have some idea how to help. "She was limping over a—and there's a big wound on her head and I can't understand what she's—"

The girl's eyes go wide. "She might have a concussion," she says hurriedly. Avita mentally high-fives herself for getting that semi-right. "Were you resting anywhere? Was there somewhere she can sit down?"

Avita points over to the house that resembles her own. The girl nods and picks her bag back up. She motions for Quatra's bag on the ground, adding, "I'll carry your stuff over while you help her. Go slow—she doesn't sound too good with the breathing."

She tries to place which District this girl is from, having never really talked to her in training. But Avita struggles and struggles, not even certain of which District she's from in the first place. Is it because she lost all that blood last night? Is it because she's so worried about Quatra? She's not sure, but she knows this girl means them no harm as she begins attempting to move the front door, allowing Quatra access.

It takes all of ten minutes for this new development to take them into the living room again, and Avita eases Quatra down onto the couch while the girl looks through her bag frantically. Avita is scared, for sure; but she's also relieved, seeing her plan come to fruition so soon after making it. She has a chance to get home, she thinks. A _chance_.

* * *

 **Morganite Gardierre, 14, C-District 6**

The first cannon going off brings them all to a standstill. Cyber has his hands firmly pressed to the trigger of the mine, doing his best to make sure it doesn't go off while he reworks it. Valentina is part way though gathering some bolts to use with her crossbow. Morganite keeps watch on the doors in front of them, knife held tightly in her hand as the possibilities for victims races through her mind. The first cannon is what has them cautious and curious all at once, but it's the second cannon that sends them into a panic as they all look to Cetronia for guidance.

The career is fast asleep in the cornucopia, unaware of the killings happening beyond their base of operations. The three Capitolites look back to each other, silent, as the seconds tick by.

"How long was the break?" Morganite asks. It's the best thing to figure out first, right?

Cyber turns back to his mine. He definitely needs to finish working on it before it kills them all. "About… fourteen point five-two seconds."

Almost a quarter of a minute. That's enough time to be plausible for two deaths in a scuffle. Not enough for the deaths to be just the two fighting, right? Not unless there's a spot that makes people die super fast or—

"Should we make sure someone's not coming here?" Valentina speaks up. Cyber and Morganite look to her, stunned that she'd suggested such a thing. "We can't fight if they break in—Cyber hasn't put down all the mines yet. And Cetronia…"

Cetronia's exhausted from staying up all night and going back to her old schedule. If someone attacks, the trio will truly be on their own in the fight. One or two of them would die for sure, at least until the ruckus roused Cetronia. But then there's the issue of whether or not she winds up outnumbered. And if Cetronia goes down, then where does that leave the last survivor of the career pack?

Morganite swallows a lump in her throat and rises to her feet. She's not the oldest and certainly not the leader, but she knows Val is still shaken from yesterday. Morganite either takes the lead today, or they do nothing and wait.

"Bring some supplies with us," Morganite tells her. She picks up a bag and stuffs a few spare knives inside, tucking them beside the small pile of bandages already inside. "We'll do a perimeter check and make sure no one's coming to the cornucopia. That'll give Cyber time to arm a few more mines and place them in the entrances."

"Come back in through the bathroom," Cyber says without looking at them. "One of you can climb up on the other's shoulders and then thread a rope through for the other. Window's too high for anyone else to do it, so I won't bother with setting a trap there."

Morganite nods. She watches as Valentina tucks a few more bolts in her bag, one already loaded on her crossbow for quick use. They shouldn't run into trouble so soon into the Games, but it can't hurt to be safe. She's glad Val is at least taking that precaution.

They cast an almost longing gaze back to the safety of the cornucopia when they leave. It'll be a quick lap around the building, no more than half an hour for the sake of being thorough. There's truly nothing to worry about, especially since anyone coming for them would've attacked already. Morganite keeps these thoughts in mind as she and Valentina close the doors behind them. Be rational. Worst comes to worst, she follows Barb's advice and uses Val as a shield.

They go left first, heading in the direction of Augustus Street. It's uneventful for the most part. No tributes, no threats. Their pet owl watches them keenly from atop the town hall, almost like a mother watching over its children, and it sends a shiver up Morganite's spine. She wonders if it truly considers them such a way—as children—or if it's biding its time until it can eat them. She has doubts that an owl requested by Florence would be capable of killing her, let alone her allies, but there's just no telling when she stares back into those wide, grey eyes.

Morganite checks around the corner, seeing Quanta Street just ahead, and she motions for Valentina to follow her. So far no one has jumped out, and they haven't heard any voices in the distance that may prove to be threats. It's safe for the moment, safe enough that Valentina decides to ask, "Who do you think it was?"

 _Finn_ , Morganite almost says out loud. It's expected that he'll die soon at this point, especially with his leg the way it is. There's a few others who might be injured, too, but not with such a disadvantage, and there's definitely a good number who survived the bloodbath thanks to luck. There's not much point throwing out guesses, but she does so anyway.

"That girl from Three," she says. "She's got asthma, doesn't she? I wouldn't be surprised if she had an attack or got targeted."

Valentina chews her lip. "I think the other one was Avita. I kinda… I hope it was her, actually," she admits. Morganite hums at her. It's understandable, wanting one of them to be Avita. Everything that was planned was just unravelled because she trusted the least trustworthy person in the Games. The careers were crippled because of Avita's trust in Gossamer. To hope she perishes early is more than understandable.

"Me, too," Morganite mumbles.

They're halfway through this side of the town hall, just a few paces from Quanta Street. The owl shifts slowly, keeping an eye on the girls, and Morganite and Valentina find themselves glancing warily back up at it. Don't eat us, Morganite begs silently. Don't eat _us_.

It feels like a lifetime before the owl stills again. Morganite lets out a heavy breath, tension easing from her shoulders. Finishing the perimeter check won't come fast enough.

At first she doesn't expect to find anything, believing the scouting of the back of town hall to wind up like its side. But Morganite soon finds herself needing a hefty lessons on not counting her chickens—especially when the group, just as alert as they are from the sound of cannons, makes direct eye contact from across the block. Adrianne's alliance must've been camping at the lake for the night, although Morganite can't say for sure if it was a good idea. The cold night air brought a mist from the lake, seen clearly from the bathroom at town hall, and even Cetronia had made a point of avoiding the area. She wants to hope that it's the lake that requires the masks, but hoping can only get her so far.

The tallest of them—the sole Capitolite, Simoleon—hurriedly begins trying to load a bolt to their crossbow. Morganite stiffens, tightens her grip on her knife, and looks to Valentina.

"Do we run?" Valentina asks as she takes aim. Morganite chews her lip. Adrianne is already getting ready to use her war scythe a second time, little Daphne scrambling for their bags and packing their supplies.

"We can cripple them," Morganite mutters. "You've got better aim than Simoleon. Try aim for Adrianne's legs or torso—she's gotta be what's keeping them afloat right now."

With a decisive hum, Valentina sprints over in the direction the fenceline and takes cover behind a large, broken terracotta garden box. Morganite pulls her second knife from her pocket, getting a feel for it in her non-dominant hand, and takes the lead once more. She knows she's just dedicated herself to using Val as a shield, but damn it, Morganite's not the one with long-range expertise! She'd be likely to shoot Val through the hand if she tried to!

But with Simoleon having a one in training, and with Valentina having the better use of a crossbow, Morganite can definitely rely on backtracking and abandoning her ally if Adrianne is too strong.

So she zigzags in the other alliance's direction, throwing Simoleon off-aim and making Adrianne focus on her rather than Val. She readies her knives, keeps her eyes on the long blade of the war scythe, and Morganite _begs_ for this plan to work out. Adrianne gets into stance, Simoleon tries to follow Morganite's movements. Morganite can feel the soft beats of doubt in her chest.

Time slows. She watches Adrianne ready the war scythe. She feels the air near her arm shift.

Daphne lets out a screech so loud that Morganite actually stumbles and falls, rolling just out of Adrianne's strike zone and given enough time to collect her bearings. Morganite looks left and right, wondering why the girl had screamed—but then Simoleon calls out her name and drops the crossbow, panic evident in the teen's expression. Morganite backs away slowly, no longer in Adrianne's sights, and she glances back at Valentina to see what's happened. Valentina gestures frantically for her to run over, bolt missing from her crossbow. Morganite looks back just one more time, curiosity getting the better of her.

The bolt is sticking out from Daphne's back, but not somewhere lethal. She's slumped on the ground, her upper half still moving, but Morganite knows more than enough to know what the lack of movement in the girl's legs means. Despite missing Adrianne, Valentina had done the next best thing: Cripple another tribute and get Adrianne's attention off of Morganite.

Daphne sobs and reaches for Simoleon as the taller teen tries to help her. Adrianne stares in horror, eyes wide and war scythe slowly loosening in her grip. Morganite can do nothing but watch, astonished at the damage caused by one little bolt, until finally something pressing presents itself.

The scream Daphne had let out didn't just attract her allies' attention—it attracted a whole other alliance, as well as the owl at the town hall. Morganite looks over to where Val is hiding as Gossamer and Nikostratos enter the area, the bespectacled troublemaker holding their shared, small spear at the ready. Gossamer limps after him, their belongings strapped over his back, and then they all come to a standstill as the owl screeches at a deafening rate.

Things almost happen too fast for Morganite to process them, but she does know that she has an opportunity to wound Adrianne and further eliminate the alliance. Morganite holds her breath and lunges up at Adrianne with her knife. Adrianne backs away just in time for the injury to not be fatal, but the long, thin slashes Morganite leaves on her forearm and face are enough to distract her thanks to pain alone. The wind picks up just as Adrianne turns her attention back to her, and then suddenly they're being thrown off their feet by the sheer pressure of each gust that hits them.

Morganite drops one of her knives and shrieks at the force assaulting her. It hurts to keep her eyes open, to see what's happening and how much danger she's in. All she hears is Adrianne shriek just as loudly, and then her voice fading into the air as though she's being pulled away. The pressure of the air leaves for a time, the owl's screech overpowering Adrianne's, until finally it settles atop a row of buildings. Morganite can open her eyes fully now, and the sight she's met with makes her retch and wish she'd never looked in the first place.

Adrianne is clutched in one taloned foot, screaming and waving her war scythe around in an attempt to release herself from the owl's grip. The owl is undeterred, weighing her in its grip before finally hefting it talons up into the air. It's as though it's throwing Adrianne, and Morganite can only watch as the girl screams, flails in midair, while the owl lowers its head in an attempt to swallow her whole.

The beak opens wide, the eyes watch her descend. Adrianne can only let out a shrill, " _NO!_ " before she's silenced by the owl. Morganite stares in horror at the way the owl visibly swallows her. Soon its attention turns to the others it doesn't deem its children—Nikostratos and Gossamer, Daphne and Simoleon.

Another bolt flies past Morganite, and she's stunned to see Valentina still attacking the remainder of Adrianne's alliance. The bolt sinks deep into Daphne's chest, just under her collarbone, and all Morganite can think is how _painful_ dying will be for her. How _slow_ it'll be. She wishes Daphne passes slowly, and she holds on to this wish as she picks up her knife again and sprints back in Val's direction.

The owl screeches again. The sudden shock of light assaulting their vision causes them to stumble once more. Before Morganite can so much as see past the stars in her eyes and black spots hiding the world from her, she hears yet another moving scream before the owl takes off once more.

* * *

 **Calico Hemingway, 17, District 8**

Three cannons. Calico looks up from the cooking pot absently. Including the two he'd just dispatched, that's three deaths today. He blinks at the nearby window, at the fading red light outside. They're dropping like flies at this rate. Not leaving him much time to make his decision about Cham. He knows what he _should_ do, what his gut reaction is to do, but when it comes down to the bottom line, Calico never sees Cham again in either scenario.

It's what makes this so difficult, he thinks with a scowl. If he dies, Cham might live and he never sees her again. If he wins, Cham is kept from him at all costs by the president. No matter what happens, Calico loses.

In most circumstances, where he doesn't choke up and falter in saying anything, Calico would give his life for Cham without hesitation. But the women he'd been called to meet two days ago exude so much distrust, so much malice—he can't trust their word alone that they won't punish Cham once he dies. That they haven't already! What would she think if he just gives up—just _dies_ —while she's in the clutches of the Capitol and _suffering_? Calico won't be the brother who promised her she'd be fine. Calico would be the liar everyone else faces without realising.

He inhales deeply and shakes his head. Instead of panicking over some (very valid) concerns, he should plan his next move and figure out what to do now that the arena is down to fifteen tributes, now that time remaining between now and the final twelve twist slowly dwindles. Calico steps over the girl representing Eleven's body, careful not to get the foam leaking from her mouth on his boots. It's been roughly fifteen minutes since she'd passed, not much longer since Calico simply plunged Avita's knife into the concussed girl's throat. Of the two, the blond had taken longer to go down—Avita may have been fully trusting of Calico once he'd started cooking her bag of oats with his water, but Quatra was still coherent enough to refuse eating and try fighting back.

While Avita had laid choking, sobbing on the floor and writhing in pain, Calico pinned down Quatra and aimed for the jugular. Calico, the physically weakest of all tributes, had been able to pin down the spy and kill her while Avita began to lose warmth.

The blood on his hands feels almost worth it. Almost.

Calico pulls off his vest and begins the long process of wiping his hands clean of the blood. He can't afford to taint any of the food they'd had leftover with it, especially since he's just wasted a bag of rolled oats in order to poison the girls. Not that both of them ate it, he thinks bitterly as he looks back at Quatra. As pleased as he is that he finished the job personally, the effort she made him put into it was still too troublesome. At least a whole bottle of cyanide water wouldn't have been wasted, as well as a whole pot of poisoned oats. At least Avita ate a lot of it…

There's no point in dwelling on it now, though. Calico drops his vest to the floor and begins looting the girls' bags, stuffing what remains of their belongings into his own. At least he got back at Luxor's fool of a father by killing two of their precious Capitolites. If there's any takeaways from today's actions (outside of adding two to his kill count), it's that he let irony take its course.

Going out to survey the area hadn't been on his agenda today. He'd heard the yowling last night, sure, but all of the alliance was reluctant to investigate. They'd left obvious signs of coming to the suburbia, a trail for someone—or something—to follow. Luxor is their best bet of keeping defenses high. Calico can't just tell him to investigate the immediate area for danger. It's better if he does it himself, where everyone still thinks he's kind, meek Chambray.

It definitely paid off, he muses as he exits the house. The hovercraft that collects bodies is already well on its way to Elysium, a small dot in the sky that's slowly descending upon the island city. Calico purses his lips at the sight of it. It'll be better if he doesn't mention what he's done today, if only to keep Luxor and Finn's trust in him. Things are tense enough with Calico being on the fence with regards to keeping Finn in the alliance. Hell, he'd even admit he wanted to be the one to leave the suburbia to do a perimeter check so he wasn't left alone with the boy from Six.

He slips out the front door and goes on his merry way. There really is nothing else to do in the area, especially since any potential threats (if those two could even be considered such) are gone. Lingering will do him no good. Presenting his boon to his alliance will help keep things calm for the time being.

A big flash erupts in the sky. Calico stumbles, black spots in the corners of his vision. He looks up at the hovercraft, sees it pull away as though waiting for the light to pass. Calico can see the remnants of red, painting the sky and leaving behind confused shouts in its wake. His mind races with the possibilities of the light—a mid-Games twist? Someone's sabotage? He's certain they're not up to twelve people, and it's only been two days so far. On top of the faces in the sky yesterday, there's only been three cannon fires. Sixteen? It has to be just sixteen left right now.

As the light fades, he hears the wind pick up and the screech of that behemoth of an owl following suit. Screams follow, a deep voice spewing obscenities. Calico grips the straps of his backpack tight enough to make his knuckles turn white. He has to run. He has to make sure that owl doesn't fly in his direction, not while it's agitated.

Except it's easier said than done. The deep voice's shouts go silent, almost as though swallowed whole by the owl, and then the wind continues picking up. Calico steps further out into the yard, now searching frantically for the owl and ignoring the hovercraft waiting to collect today's bodies. He has more pressing matters than just some Gamemakers doing their jobs, a far cry from their colleagues who release these mutts and mid-Games twists. Calico holds his breath, feels his heart still in his chest. Where's it gone? Where's it going to emerge?

The owl swoops overhead, letting out a loud screech that leaves Calico's ears ringing. Down feathers rain down upon him, pulled loose my the fierce wind clipping its wings, and Calico takes that as his cue to find shelter. As far as he's concerned, someone else has just been eaten by the owl—a fate he isn't willing to share and create a solidarity from. Calico turns on his heel and sprints back inside the house, tripping over his feet as he does so. The owl doubles back, aware of his presence, and he just barely makes it past the threshold when the owl slams itself against the front of the house.

The house begins to concave, the weakness of its foundations giving way under the owl's weight. Calico skids past Avita and Quatra's bodies, doesn't look back as a hefty piece of debris crushes Avita's lower body. Calico keeps running, heading down the hall in search of somewhere secure to hide. The first room he makes it to before the owl's talons break through the ceiling in a bedroom, and Calico wastes no time throwing his back under the old, rusty bed frame and crawling under himself. He feels pain in his leg as he finally slides under, and soon that pain travels to his lungs as dust and plaster assault his nostrils. Calico coughs and hacks as the owl screeches and continues to attack the house.

By some form of miracle, a ringing sounds out in the arena. Calico clamps his hands over his mouth and nose harshly, still coughing into them rather violently. Ever so slowly the owl loses interest in him, the house no longer in its sights as the ringing continues. He's certain his coughing will pull its attention back to him, but the ringing continues to echo through the air and the owl never stops looking up into the sky for its origin.

Finally, after what feels like an eternity of waiting and hacking up a lung as discreetly as possible, the owl's large shadow and overbearing presence leaves the destroyed home. Loose bits of debris are picked up, thrown around the room by the gusts of wind that follow.

And then silence.

Calico's entire body goes limp. He hands fall from his face to the floor and his forehead rests beside them. Too close, he thinks as he tries to catch his breath. Too _close_. His eyes slide shut for just a moment, just to give him some clarity and time to calm down.

"Hell," he wheezes, and his voice sounds more ragged than usual. The dust must be in his lungs, and Calico can only scowl at the idea of his breathing being impaired until it passes.

He somehow pities whoever's been devoured by that owl. God, it's so hard to remain indifferent when that much raw power comes at you all at once.

* * *

 **Adrianne Evans, 17, District 4**

Every breath she inhales brings a threatening gag to her throat. Her midsection aches, her bones worn and bruised. The liquid that sloshes around her is warm and nips at her skin. She's not dead, she tells herself with each gaseous bubble that pops along the liquid's surface. She's very much alive, and she will continue to be if she acts fast enough.

Adrianne blinks and coughs, reaching for her vest pocket as best she can. This liquid—this _stomach acid_ —reaches her waist even when it isn't bubbling up and spewing putrid air in her face. Anything inside her pockets will be ruined now, warm to the touch and covered in stuff she'd rather not ponder wading through for her life, let alone touching with her bare hands. Her fingers find her flashlight, and she grimaces as she clicks it to life and pulls it from her pocket. The stomach is no longer a dark, dank place—but she wishes it had stayed that way.

She's never seen the inside of a stomach before. She's gutted fish, sure, but the innards were always either intact, too mixed around to tell the difference, or given to other spearfishers who knew what to do with them. She's never _dealt_ with stomachs, nor entertained what food would be met with every time it was consumed. Adrianne thinks she may have never wanted to, if even a mere glimpse of this place had been presented to her back then.

Fleshy and pink and wrinkly and sickening. Adrianne gags all over again, clamping a hand over her mouth. She's quick to remove it once she remembers that it's covered in the stuff, and instead she just resigns herself to whatever happens to her own stomach. Not like bile will be out of place in here, after all.

She moves over to the closest wall of flesh to her and reaches to and fro for her war scythe. She dropped it when she landed, but the stomach acid still isn't high enough to be out of her reach. She can still stand on her two feet, so naturally it should be easy to find without outright swimming for it. One foot kicks out, slides against the skin ( _she gags again_ ), and then another follows it. Adrianne keeps this pace of moving every few seconds in search of her scythe, until finally she's crossed the entire stomach and feels something foreign bump her leg. She plunges her free hand beneath the surface and tilts her chin upwards. The lower she sinks into the bile to get to the scythe, the more of that putrid stent she gets shoved up her nose.

Her jawline just barely touches the surface when she gets a loose grip on the scythe. Adrianne lifts it triumphantly, shakes it clean as best she can, and regards the stomach lining once more.

Maybe if she's careful enough she can gut the owl from the inside and escape. It'll crash to the ground once she starts—the pain would be agonising, naturally—but she'll be in trouble if it lands on her stomach. Or if she drowns in the blood and bile before she can get through every inch of flesh between her and the outside world. It's a gamble, but between that and trying to make the owl throw her up, she's more confident in her ability to butcher its guts rather than tickle them.

With a new goal in mind and her war scythe in hand, Adrianne readies herself to puncture the stomach lining—

Everything lurches, vibrations of the owl's screech causing the stomach to quake. Adrianne loses her balance, falls into the bile completely. She chokes and sputters, clamps her eyes shut as quick as she can, and breaks the surface just as fast. Muffled yelling, closer to a human than an animal, enters the area. Adrianne shines the flashlight up at the opening of the stomach—it expands, pulsing, before a flash of blue and green rushes down and crashes into the bile beside her. Adrianne turns away and shields her face with her arms. She's lost her scythe again, but the presence of someone else in here might be the more pressing matter.

While Adrianne coughs and tries to wipe as much bile off of her as possible, the other person surfaces violently and screams. It's loud, louder than she'd like in the cramped space, and she rapidly flicks the flashlight on and off in their face. The screams die down, thankfully, but now their attention—and possibly anger—is on Adrianne.

She clicks it on a final time and holds its position over their face, and then it's all downhill from there. Nikostratos _fucking_ Farrington got eaten alive, too. With his weapon and bag as well. Adrianne seriously wishes it'd been the little brat who'd paralysed Daphne with her crossbow in here instead.

Croix shades his face with his hand as he surveys the area. She can see every disgusted emotion she felt once the fact that she was still alive sank in, right there on his face. It's a little funny to witness in person, actually.

And then he opens his mouth: "Can't say I approve of your choice of decor."

Adrianne may want to throw up and never deal with this asshole, but she won't miss a chance to roast him back.

"Wanted to make you feel at home," she says with a sneer. "You Capitolites love the whole ipecac and purging thing, right?"

She gets a grimace mixed with a smirk in return, and it'll be the best she gets from him at this point. The owl moves again, the sudden shift in the stomach sending them off their feet. Adrianne deems it safe to assume they're flying back to the cornucopia now.

"Pleasantries aside," Adrianne continues, "we need to get out of here before we start losing layers."

"About six hours, give or take," Croix jumps in. His tone is amenable, less interested in a fight and more interested in survival. She's relieved for once that it's not another District tribute she's stuck with—they'd be fighting to the death first for sure. "The acid's probably already working through our shoes and pants. Maybe even our hands and face," he adds with a bland expression.

She shifts her feet around the immediate area as he says this. "Shouldn't take more than ten minutes if I can find my scythe. I was gonna gut my way out before you got eaten."

"Not a bad idea. If you can find it I'll hold the torch so you can see what you're doing."

The agreement is reached quickly and painlessly. Both of them want to survive, to get out of the owl and the arena—she's glad he recognises that this is no time to be enemies. Adrianne flips the torch in her hand and passes it over in his direction. Croix takes it with a nod, shines it down onto the pool of bile so Adrianne can search for her scythe. He keeps still outside of motioning for her to start looking.

Like earlier, Adrianne lowers herself until her hands brush her knees, and she angles her head up just enough to keep her face out of the water. She's vulnerable like this, light in her eyes and limbs under the surface. She has no time to properly react to the surprise that comes her way.

The light suddenly flickers away from her face and up towards the higher stomach wall. Adrianne blinks, freezes in place. So many thoughts race through her mind: Is someone else coming in? Is there something inside the owl they didn't account for? More food to crush them? It's a mystery even after the reality hits her, literally, in the face; Adrianne is so stunned that it doesn't register right away as Croix brings the flashlight down against her forehead with a grunt, sending her under the surface with a stabbing pain in her skull and a muffled ringing in her ears.

She surfaces just in time to see him raise the flashlight again. Despite the whole seven inches of difference between them, Adrianne throws her hands up and catches Croix's wrist with just enough strength to keep him from striking a second time.

"What the _fuck_!?" she screams. Croix kicks at her, forcing Adrianne's grip on his arm to waver, and he stumbles back against the wall of the stomach.

"Did you _honestly_ think I'd ever let someone tell me what to do, let alone _ally_ with me for the sole purpose of survival?" Croix shines the light in her face, blinding her for a moment, and then switches it off. Adrianne is left stumbling and retreating as she hears the bile slosh around Croix, his advance more than evident. "Being eaten by this _mutt_ was insult enough, but hearing some bimbo career from the _weakest_ career District think she's better than me? Fuck off."

The words would sting if literally any of them applied to her.

"We're being _digested_!" Adrianne yells back at him. Croix keeps advancing. "The only way out is to work together, you asshole!"

"My ass, it is!"

Adrianne takes a big gulp of putrid air and dives under the surface. Croix swings at her, missing and striking only bile; Adrianne glides over to his position, and she wastes no time surfacing with her fist clenched tight.

It hits his throat and sends him backwards with a choked screech. Croix doubles over and clasps his throat as delicately as he can. Adrianne plunges her hands into the bile and grabs for the torch. It's just barely in her hands when Croix gets some of his voice back, and once it's turned on Adrianne shoves the handle into her mouth and charges the Capitolite in front of her.

His hands flail about, his legs collapse under him. Adrianne straddles Croix as best she can and forces his head under the surface, all of her might going into holding him down just _long enough_. Her lungs are more powerful than most, she reminds herself. It won't take too long for him to drown if she keeps up her strength. Croix tries swiping at her and splashing bile in her face, but Adrianne takes it all in stride and continues to force him down. Soon enough Croix is well beneath the surface, closer to the scythe than he is to Adrianne.

His arms grow sluggish. One obviously intended punch turns into a pitiful smack, serving only to stroke Adrianne's cheek and fall back under the surface.

Just a little longer, she thinks as tears well up in her eyes. Just a _little longer_.

* * *

 **:)**

 **For those with sharp eyes, you'll notice that the story title has changed. That's because of an in-joke between me and my gamemakers who knew this event was happening with the very beginning, and we began to jokingly call it the "vore chapter". We'll be back to our regular Mortem title next update, but for now I believe a little fun change is in order lmao**

 **Here's our QQ, and remember that the deaths won't be acknowledged in the A/Ns until a night POV is shown for the day!**

 **QQ #31:** What surprised you most about this chapter's events?

 **I hope you all enjoyed, and I'll see you next time!**


	38. Night 2, Day 3

**Hey guys! You can finally stop holding your breaths over the last chapter, so I hope you enjoy the thrilling conclusion to our wild owl adventure!**

* * *

 **37 - Night 2, Day 3**

 **Nikostratos Croix Farrington, 18, C-District 3  
** _Night 2_

 _One…_

Her hands leave his body, shaking harshly enough for even him to notice.

 _Two_ …

Adrianne scrambles off of him. He lets himself float, still holding his breath and feigning death.

 _Three…_

She wades around beside him, desperate to find her war scythe. Croix listens as she talks to herself out loud, encouraging herself and reaffirming her original plan. It's pointless, he tells himself.

 _Four…_

Once he's done playing dead, he'll strike. Once she stops thinking about him, he'll strike. Once she lets down her guard, he'll strike. Once he knows for certain he'll win, _he'll strike_.

 _Five…_

Adrianne heaves out a sob once she finds the war scythe. Croix carefully pushes himself to the edge of the stomach, allowing himself to drift like the corpse he's pretending to be. She doesn't need to figure out he's faked his death just yet. He just needs to get the upper hand and grab the spear he'd been swallowed with. He opens his eyes.

Ever so slowly he adjusts to the darkness. Adrianne's got the flashlight in her mouth still, training it on a section of stomach lining in front of her. Her war scythe is in her hands, but she won't need it for long. Not if Croix has anything to do with it.

He should count himself lucky that she doesn't look back once, that she doesn't think to grab his discarded spear for herself. He _should_. But Croix knows he won't—he's spent days studying the other tributes with Gossamer. If he can't pick up their little faults when push comes to shove, then what good is he to even himself? He's not lucky she ignores both his "corpse" and his weapon; he's _correct_.

Croix sinks his feet further into the acid, his torso rising and righting itself. His spear is just by his legs, poking out of the acid by a few inches; did it pierce the stomach during his struggle? All the more opportunity for Croix, if it drains some of this God awful liquid. He hooks a foot around it and pulls it in his direction. Grabbing the handle without Adrianne noticing is easy.

The hard part is keeping her unaware.

Croix wades through the acid with his eyes glued to Adrianne's back. She's smaller than him, but definitely stronger and able her hold her breath longer. He's only got so many options at his disposal, and with the spear there's only one shot to make this work. He pulls it out of the liquid slowly, sure to keep from making any splashes that get her attention. He looks her up and down, recognising her form as his eyes adjust to the sparse light in front of her.

If he picks the right spot on her back, he thinks, he can bypass the shoulder blade and ribs and pierce her heart. If he's forceful enough, he might be able to puncture the stomach of the owl and make it throw them up.

He inhales deeply. Alright, he supposes that's his plan now. Much less messy than cutting his way out from the inside and risking free falling from its gut.

Adrianne is mere feet away from him, within range of his spear. Croix sizes her up. He recalls every biology class he's attended at school, every detail he'd memorised in his goal to become a Gamemaker—perhaps even the Head Gamemaker one day. If he angles the spear diagonally between the cervical and thoracic vertebrae, pushes downward into the rib cage… More to the left side, he reminds himself as he positions his spear behind an unaware Adrianne. Piercing the superior vena cava won't kill her as quickly as the aorta, and Croix simply cannot afford Adrianne being able to fight in her dying moments.

She moves to ready her war scythe, finally settling on a spot to pierce the stomach. Croix sneers at her, adjusting his arm. Damn girl, making him dance to _her_ tune when he's trying to kill her.

Once Adrianne is still again, taking the opportunity to psych herself up to strike, Croix drives the spear with both hands into her back. Adrianne lets out a strangled scream, the pain catching her off guard and forcing her to drop the war scythe. The blade slices at the stomach lining, reducing the inches between Croix and freedom.

She twitches, tries to turn and face him. The flashlight falls from her mouth and into the acid. Darkness washes over them. Darkness Croix is more familiar with than she is.

He holds himself steady, grunting with the effort it takes to wait for her to pass out. He knows that an item obstructing the severed aorta can keep someone alive for longer, but he doesn't want to risk Adrianne attacking the minute he pulls the spear out. Not unless he makes certain to strike a second time, setting her fate into stone.

Lung. He can puncture a lung. The rib cage becomes wider further down, and he only needs to poke a hole in a small, almost insignificant piece of the organ. It's too dark to make a surefire plan, but based on where he's holding the spear he can at least guesstimate.

Throwing caution to the wind, Croix yanks the spear out from Adrianne's torso and ploughs it back in, lower this time and with much more force. He hears her choke loudly, struggle to breathe, and then finally she grows weaker. Croix drops her in the acid and pulls his spear out. He makes quick work of locating her flashlight—the sight of her staring at him as she floats in the acid, both resigned to her death and anguished over it, sends a chill down his spine. Adrianne remains conscious for a few minutes more, too weak to do much more than stare, and then her eyes shut as she continues to bleed out.

Through the stomach lining he can hear a rumbling clap: A cannon signalling Adrianne's death. Croix flicks his hands free of acid and smirks to himself.

There's no way they'll leave a body to be fully digested in here, and he's banking on that fact alone for his escape. Come the end of the day—still plenty of time to spare, given how long it'll take for the acid to seep through his skin—the owl will throw the duo up and leave Croix to live another day.

The event comes sooner than planned, though. The stomach churns and sways, the acid bubbling and building up. Croix looks down in alarm at the steadily rising liquid. He points the flashlight up at the entrance. God he hopes he fits. Going back up may not be as easy as coming down.

It all happens in an instant. Croix is overwhelmed by the acid for a fleeting second, his grip on his spear lost and the flashlight just barely remaining in his grasp. One second he's holding his breath, the next he's slammed against the ground with enough force to knock the wind out of him. There's still acid in his eyes and he's writhing on the ground as the owl trills weakly.

He's met with blissful moonlight when he can finally see again. Croix gulps down fresh air— _beautiful, untainted air_ —and slowly feels his pride bubble in his chest. The owl hovers over him shamefully, avoiding his gaze. He's done it. He's conquered the owl and killed Adrianne!

The corpse in question is just a few feet away from him, splayed out awkwardly on the ground and colour draining from her face. There's still some blood pouring from her wounds, no doubt coming mostly from her severed aorta. If there's anything Croix can be proud of in the Games thus far, it's _this_.

The pride turns to enjoyment. As the clouds part and the hovercraft coming for the corpse descends, it slowly turns to jubilation. Croix gasps for air as his shoulders shake and his stomach rumbles. He can't get enough oxygen, can't stop the ache in his cheeks as he watches Adrianne be lifted into the hovercraft.

 _I outlived you_ , he wants to boast at the top of his lungs. All he can manage is laughter. _I killed you_.

His howling cackles echo through the night sky even after the hovercraft returns to Panem. The owl has long since left him behind, now uninterested in trying to eat him a second time; Croix is all by himself, left with the sounds of his laughter and footsteps approaching from afar.

He rolls onto his side and aims the flashlight towards the distance. Where did the owl even throw him up? This sure as hell isn't the lake he and Gossamer had arrived at today. He flicks the light left and right, illuminating broken windows of houses around him. Which street, he wonders? How far from his original place?

The light reflects off of a piece of metal on the ground. Croix is still wheezing, laughter dying down, but his smile is far from fading. He heaves himself to his feet. He hobbles to the piece of metal on the pavement. He struggles to keep from having another laughing fit when he reads the busted sign: Dougherty Street.

From above he hears a parachute deploy. Croix flicks the flashlight upwards, searching the sky with renewed excitement. All of that, and he still gets a sponsorship? Oh, this is too brilliant! The beam of light catches the metal packaging of his gift, and Croix watches with a wide, painful grin as it descends to his feet. He pops open the lid, fingers tracing the engraved _III-M_ on its top, and shines the light inside.

A mask, much like the one he and Gossamer had to share, and three spare filters are inside. Croix giggles at the sight. He sticks his hand inside and yanks out the mask. He clips one of the filters in place and sticks the mask over his mouth and nose. No more risk of inhaling aspetine. No more risk of damaging his lungs.

With the gift is a message—one Croix supposes is sound advice for the time being: _Don't lose your life for him._

He sucks in a deep breath. He turns back to where he'd heard the footsteps, somewhere along Dougherty Street. Don't lose his life for Gossamer… How much more obvious, he thinks, could a piece of paper be? He never intended to lose his life for Gossamer. No, much like Croix had been used by Gossamer, Gossamer had been used by Croix. He'd never have survived the bloodbath without someone with fighting experience. Likewise, Gossamer would never have been able to cause enough chaos on his own pre-Games to escape unharmed.

Even without Gossamer around now, on his own for the first time since day one, he's confident he can see the plan to find Cetronia through. After all, Capitolites are valuable now.

And Croix is one of the most powerful Capitolites left in the arena.

* * *

 **Finnegan Styx, 16, District 6**

"Do you have _any_ idea how worried we've been?!"

Calico coughs into his sleeve for the umpteenth time. He won't look at Finn or Luxor, keeping his focus on the new supplies he'd pundered.

"Ca—" Luxor cuts himself off and wipes a hand down his face. It's getting hard to keep up the Chambray facade with all the stress in the air. Even Finn is scared to say something in case he messes up again. " _Listen_ ," he tries again, "you never said anything about fighting anyone—what was I supposed to think when we heard the cannons go off today?"

That gets a reaction from Calico, at least. The blond glances over his shoulder and regards Luxor dryly, no remorse in his gaze as he deadpans, "Think of how to move on."

Hurt flashes across Luxor's features. Finn watches anxiously as the model cleans his expression, as Luxor puts on a professional, stony mask of equal indifference to Calico's.

"Then I'm sorry for what I'm about to do," he chokes out.

Alarm bells go off in Finn's head. He panics, tries to stand and speak up. Every attempt leaves him frozen in place, Barb's assault flashing through his mind, and everything he could say dies on his tongue.

Luxor advances on Calico, arms thrown open. Calico turns, expecting a fight as well. Finn can only watch in horror as the gap is closed, slowly but surely, and Luxor's arms encompasse Calico's form.

It takes a moment for both Finn and Calico to realise what the Capitol boy is doing. It's not until Luxor tucks Calico's head against his shoulder and sinks to the floor with him that there is no malice in his actions—only concern, only reassurance. Calico begins to fight back, but to no avail. It's been made abundantly clear already that Calico doesn't have the strength to fight even Finn without some kind of trick. Grey eyes convey insurmountable distress, even as Luxor hushes him and tries to hold him still against his chest.

Finn almost misses it. He almost misses Luxor's next sentence, the hurt laced in every word: "How am I gonna face her knowing I couldn't bring you home again?"

The embrace only lasts a few seconds thanks to Calico's struggling, but those seconds look to have done the trick with getting Luxor's message across. Calico shuffles away, clutching his new bag close to his chest, and he hides his face from the other boys. Silence falls over the trio. Luxor backs away, dismayed, while Finn sinks back down onto the bed he'd been situated on.

This mansion in the suburb is still so beautiful even after all the damage the elements had left behind. When Finn sees the shattered stained glass windows strewn along the floor, he sees amazing pattern casting red, blue, green glows against the carpet. When he looks at the chandelier torn apart and rusted on the lobby floor, he sees an entryway so grand that it'd take his breath away every time he saw it.

And now, looking in this large bedroom with its overturned furniture and damp, felt headboard beside him, he sees supreme comfort and luxury. Finn lets out a heavy breath and flops back down against the sheets. He's not sure how much more stress he can handle in the coming days. There's been so many scares in just two days already.

"Are we gonna be okay?" he asks out loud. He doesn't mean to, but they may as well face the music before it's totally out of their control.

Luxor looks back at Calico, who's still on the floor and around his bag like an inverted turtle, and then flops down next to Finn.

"I don't know," he says softly. "I really don't know. I thought we could just hide and be okay as long as we all stayed alive, but in practice…"

Finn can't help chewing his lips. He throws his arm over his eyes and groans.

A few more coughs come from Calico before Luxor finally sits up again to check on him. Blond hair whips about as Calico glares over at the duo. Finn watches as he tucks his sleeve under his chin and adds a pout to his expression.

"Don't fuss," he snaps. "Got bad lungs _before_ the Games."

"I'm not—"

"You _are_!"

Calico unzips the bag tucked against him and rummages through it quickly. Finn can hear plastic crinkling and rustling, before finally Calico rears back his arm and flings a hastily-sealed bag of trail mix over at the bed.

"Stop fussing over me and just eat something, for crying out loud," Calico says with a final huff.

Once again they're back to silence. Finn can't stand looking in the room much longer, witnessing the argument that he honestly feels like he's third-wheeling on. He turns to face the window and stares out at the starry night sky. He wonders how everyone back home is feeling. He wonders if they're seeing the same sky, or if it's just something computer generated.

Luxor doesn't make a move to eat, let alone pick up the bag. He remains absolutely still, a statue stuck between the two District tributes. Even as a chime rings out in the sky and a flash flickers through the room, illuminating even the farthest corners, Luxor remains frozen.

When Finn checks for the source of the light, he finds a small opening in the ceiling shining a beam of light down against the floor. Finn blinks, recalling the kind of screen from somewhere—like he'd seen it before, but not before going into the Games. It plays the fanfare of the Hunger Games, a spinning symbol of the Games flashing on the slowly forming screen. A crackled voice sounds out, once again familiar—but this time from before the Games.

It must be Lola, he thinks. The voice, though grainy and difficult to decipher, sounds chirpy and excitable during the broadcast.

"End of the day," Luxor mutters. Finn sits up again, this time paying proper attention to the screen. How many people died today? Who?

How much danger is he still in?

The screen fades to blue and soon the typical profile of a tribute is put on display. Finn sucks in a deep breath to keep himself calm. It's the girl with Tourettes who'd been nothing but kind to other tributes, had been so shy but so interesting to watch fiddle with tools in training. He didn't know Daphne Petharaph well, if at all, but seeing her make those stone tentacle things—what were they called? Made from a powder she ignited with the smallest of flames?—brought a whole new variety of wonder to Finn's world. District Four is beautiful and surrounded by water, but Daphne showed how creative District Three can be with what they have.

After Daphne flashes the face of someone FInn wishes so much that he'd had more time and courage to speak to. Adrianne Evans, the girl from Four, is the second face among the dead. He never spoke to her much either, but God, there were so many things he could've asked about her home. He'd missed her reaping, had heard how out of it she'd looked, but he never once tried to say hello. Finn squeezes his wrist as tightly as he can, the knuckles on both his hands slowly turning white.

As soon as Adrianne's vanishes, next flashes the face of a younger girl, expression calm and reserved—Quatra X, the spy. He never knew much about her, but seeing her face right after Adrianne's brings a pit of despair to form in his gut.

The final face is the owner of an afro anywhere, the pudgy cheeks and innocent gaze. Avita Clements-McMillan has died on the second day of the Games, and he can't help feeling guilty for her. She may have committed an atrocity at the bloodbath and killed Wystan before the countdown ended, but she's still just a regular kid like Finn. He looks warily down at Calico, who faces away from the screen with that same stubborn pout, and then back at the memorials. The first two cannons, Avita and Quatra's cannons, had gone off not long after Calico had left to do a perimeter check. He didn't… No, he couldn't have…

Luxor lets out a heavy breath and hangs his head. He's clearly as disappointed as Finn right now, seeing these girls on the screen.

It's selfish of him, but he wishes they all had survived another day so he wouldn't have to mourn them now. Not when he's so unprepared to, not when his heart isn't fully in the reality of the Games yet.

Lola's grainy voice comes back and the fanfare begins to fade. The beam projecting the screen flickers off, plunging the room in complete darkness. Finn's eyes take longer than before to adjust. He can only hear the conversation that follows, rather than see the body language that might shed more light on things.

"You killed the last two," Luxor says softly. It's not a question. Far from it, Finn thinks. It's a soft accusation, the kind that tells just how cautious Luxor is being right now.

Calico doesn't answer for a long time. He keeps mum about what he's done, refusing to even move and give away his position in the darkness.

And then Luxor adds, "Was it painless?"

This gets an answer. Not an answer they like, but confirmation at the very least.

"You knew cyanide was a merciless killer when you chose it," Calico says evenly. "You already know whether or not they suffered."

* * *

 **Simoleon Serif, 17, C-District 4  
** _Day 3_

It's the shuttle all over again.

It's waking up early in the morning and having breakfast with his parents. It's leaving for school with his brother on the tram, shortly before the stop that transfers to the shuttles. It's hearing the school PA system call him to the front office. It's Rori, out of breath and looking at Sim in a way a nineteen-year-old should never have to regard their sibling.

It's the denial all over again.

It's Sim insisting to Rori that there's been a mistake. It's the naive wishes of an eleven-year-old taking over reality. It's the refusal to go to hospital, to identify the bodies, lest the truth smacks him harshly back into his new life. It's all the nights he waited in their bedroom, flicking through old photos and home videos while he wanted for them to come home.

It's the funeral all over again.

It's the uncontrollable muteness that overcame him no matter how much he wanted to scream. It's the tightness around his neck as his tie clings to him like a noose. It's the whiteness of his knuckles as he held Rori's hand no matter what, unwilling to let another loved one out of his sight or reach until he knew they were safe. It's the sickness that comes with looking in the casket his parents shared, the lifelessness that the corpses reeked of despite his attempts to ignore them.

"I'm sorry, Sims," Rori says in his ear, hugging him tight. "It's just us now."

"I know," Sim whispers back. But Rori isn't there. He isn't holding him in a comforting embrace.

Sim's alone, hiding in the alleyway with the remnants of his alliance next to him.

 _Alone_.

What a familiar word, yet so unfamiliar after the events of the Games so far. Not once has he been entirely alone. Not once has anyone ignored him, for better or worse. But now look at him—he's cowering in an alleyway with his tail between his legs, hiding behind an overturned dumpster like it's his only shield against the outside world. The cruel, unforgiving outside world.

He's safe here. Just like his room is a safe place. No one gets in, Sim never gets out…

"You have to come out sometime."

 _No, I don't._

"Can't you try?"

He leans his head back against the dumpster. Always those two questions. Always the pleading.

 _I'm not feeling up to it._

Always the sigh.

"Okay. We can try again tomorrow."

Always the disappointed silence.

Sim sits up a little higher and turns his head to peek over the dumpster. Some part of him expects to see Rori retreating down the alleyway like he would their hallway, back to the study. But this isn't home, Sim reminds himself with bitter dismay; this is Elysium, the farthest from home he can get. Rori isn't here to passively lure Sim out of his room. No one is.

He hadn't cried as hard as when his parents died. He didn't know Adrianne and Daphne for long, and he's lucky to have clicked enough with Adrianne to call her a friend. He doesn't think he has the capacity to cry like that anymore, not when his breakdowns have always left him dried up for days. Tired. But he still cried with enough emotion to leave him drained, hopeless to fight back against the life he knows best.

Sim can't even bring himself to feel disgusted by the dumpster he leans against. He just remains draped over it, watching the sun light up the street outside at a snail's pace. What time even is it? It can't be late into the morning yet.

"There's a show coming to model this season's new fashion. I know it's a lot of money, but I can save enough if you want to go one day?"

Sim stares dimly out at the mouth of the alley. This is how they'd talk if Sim wasn't at his worst. When he'd wander around the house and Rori would let him do as he pleased. He lets out a tired sigh and practically melts atop the dumpster.

 _I'll think about it._

"You will? Really?"

Always so hopeful.

 _Probably…_

Always so patient—at first.

He reaches down for the backpack he'd pulled from Daphne's corpse as the hovercraft descended upon them. Adrianne had only been carrying a flashlight and her scythe, but Daphne had volunteered to take everything else. Everything but the heavy shield, Sim thinks grimly. He'd dropped it back in the streets, too busy trying to forget Daphne's pained howls at the time to care.

A lot of work had been put into getting the shield in the first place. He should go pick it up.

He slides off of the dumpster and lands on the ground with weak, jelly legs. Sim groans softly at the sheer amount of effort it takes just to stay upright. He hasn't felt this weak in… Well, a while. His body and mind are so in sync for once, so agreeable towards each other for once, that even his limbs are becoming slack and limp as his mind repeats over and over, like a broken record: _It should've been me, not them_.

He's never been suicidal. Far from it, and even his therapist has acknowledged that taking his own life isn't an immediate danger for the Serif family right now. But his inherent fear of others, his natural desire to withdraw from it all—it's done a number on his self esteem, no matter how much he tries to deny it. With no one, not even himself, around to argue that he deserves to survive the Hunger Games, just walking over to pick up a shield feels like an uphill battle.

Somehow he stumbles to the alley's entrance. The light of a new day beckons him, but Sim just stands there and feels the pit in his stomach begin to form. He peeks around the corner in search of the shield. His heart sinks when he sees it in the middle of the street, too far for him to fathom moving from his safe space right now.

"You're so close! You can do it!"

Always the pain in his chest. Always the panic attack.

 _I can't_ …

Sim reaches up and clutches weakly at his shirt. Breathing becomes difficult, a feat only someone stronger than him can manage.

"I promise, only the first step will be the scariest—that's it!"

 _Rori, I can't…_

His eyes sting as tears prick at him. Sim squeezes them shut and fights to stay upright, lest he hurt himself by collapsing to the ground. His mind may as well be ejecting from his body, the feeling of existing no longer available to Sim as seconds tick by.

He's so scared. He's so scared that a building will fall on him, or that the owl will snatch him away, or that one of the other tributes will find him, or—

"Take your time, Sim."

So different from the begging. So different from the pleading to just throw caution to the wind for once.

But still familiar.

"I'm right here with you. No need to rush."

 _Are you sure?_

He remembers the disbelief he'd felt at the soft tone, at how utterly reassuring a stranger had been to him.

"Positive! Sometimes we just gotta put ourselves before the world, y'know?"

Such simple advice. Such _easy_ advice.

"Plus, the ocean is gonna be ten times better to see in person when you're not about to break down."

Sim reaches for the bag on his shoulder and carefully lowers it to the ground. He bends his knees and slowly, slowly follows it down, until finally he's sitting in the alleyway opening and hugging the bag to his chest. His heartbeat slows back to a bearable pace, and the tears threatening to exhaust him further stop after a fraction of a second. Sim inhales deeply, holds it, and exhales against the material of the bag. He opens his eyes and watches the street with a blank stare.

"Okay," he mumbles into the bag. He can see Adrianne's playful smirk in his mind, the pride in her eyes for trying a method of taking care of himself. If he focuses hard enough, he can even imagine the warmth of Adrianne hugging him—just like the night of the interviews, when she'd refused to leave his side until he was okay.

He can imagine the praise. More than that, he can see the relief ease Melvin's shoulders, all the way back in the Capitol.

"My own pace," Sim agrees with Adrianne. "It's okay to go at my own pace."

* * *

 **Octavia Faye, 17, District 10**

No amount of words in any language, dead or thriving, can describe just how much she feels like Christmas came early. It's all unfolding right here in front of her, and Octavia is _living_ for how violently the tables have turned on the prick in front of her.

In the most babying voice possible, Octavia keeps her lamb splitter—gifted to her just this morning, no less!—right within striking range of Gossamer's face and coos, "What's wrong, Gossie? You lose your li'l sidekick?"

To his credit, he's keeping his expression rather pleasant through the whole ordeal. It pisses Octavia off, but she'll be damned if it isn't a talent of his.

Running into him had been far from their intention. After a disastrous night making sure Quatra wasn't following them, Octavia and Ham had just barely made it to the government building a block away from the mall. It's big, it's spacious, and on top of that it had _beds_. It was not only an office complex, but also a housing complex for bigwigs like Snow and her colleagues.

They got settled, and then all of a sudden, on the morning of day three in the arena, Gossamer Wormwood stumbles into the lobby with only a backpack and frustrated scowl to his name. It brings her back to now, where she has Gossamer on the floor under her boot and her cleaver in the air.

Gossamer's pleasant expression doesn't falter in his reply. "Sharp of you, Octavia," he compliments her.

"It's not the only thing that's sharp," she says sweetly, "so start talking. You're good at that, right?"

Gossamer raises a brow. She stops him before he can actually start.

"Throw your bag to Ham, while you're at it."

He rolls his eyes and wiggles under her boot, shimmying the bag out from under him, and slides it across the floor towards Ham. The smaller girl just sits down where the bag stops and unzips it, exhaustion from their stress over Quatra still evident in her expression. She yawns and pulls out the first of Gossamer's belongings, listing out loud, "Basic medical supplies."

"You don't want to kill me, Octavia," Gossamer tries, his voice just as sweet as her's. He still looks pleasant, like he's having a casual conversation about some school event or something. "I can assure you of that much."

Octavia blinks at him. Bold of him to assume she'll be rational right now.

"I can say with the utmost sincerity," Octavia argues, "that pummelling your face in with a knife meant to cleave lambs will bring me _inexplicable_ amounts of joy."

"Rope," Ham adds.

Gossamer purses his lips. "Morbid. Won't comment. How would _you_ like for me to beg for my life?"

"With enough shame to damage your planetary ego."

"Galactic, but go on."

"Flare gun, no flares," Ham goes on.

Octavia pushes her heel further down against his chest, and for once Gossamer actually flinches at the pressure. He still smiles, but the level of strain keeping it there is noticeable to even Octavia.

She sucks in a deep breath and says, "I want you to give me a _very_ good reason why I shouldn't kill you for my own satisfaction, loot your corpse, and then go on my merry way."

A nonchalant shrug, the pleasant demeanour shining through again. "You and Ham can't leave together," he says. "You'll be targeted specifically for killing me in cold blood, not in self defense. I have a rough plan for almost every remaining tribute's demise based on what I know about them. Cetronia included," he adds with a painful level of casualness.

Octavia lowers the cleaver slightly. That's quite the statement, even from someone like Gossamer. He's never overstated his abilities—not that she's ever talked to him about them or even bothered to ask about them—but even this feels farfetched right now.

"How would you kill me? Right now, in this very situation?"

"Break your knee, wrestle you to the ground, trap you in a full Nelson until I can internally decapitate you. Or knock you unconscious, whichever is easier."

Smug prick. She still takes her boot off of his chest and steps closer to Ham. She doesn't want to take any chances.

Gossamer snorts and sits up, rubbing his chest with his hand. "I'm exaggerating," he sighs. "I just have a plan for the careers. A tentative one for that bitch Luxor, too."

"You're really bitter over him shooting you in the ass, huh?"

He bristles at her. " _Upper thigh_!"

Octavia stifles a laugh. Gossamer Wormwood? Snapping at her? Oh, how the mighty have fallen. There's no doubt that at this point she's gonna piss him off as often as she can, especially if he's going to lose his composure over being targeted _and_ injured in the bloodbath.

"Holy shit," Ham wheezes. Gossamer and Octavia both look to her, and the boy's expression turns to one of alarm when he sees the folded sheet of paper in Ham's hands. "Is this a _map_?"

Oh, she really _can_ afford to kill Gossamer with something like a map in his bag. She'd get more peace and quiet, too.

He looks warily back up at Octavia. She must be showing how smug she feels, because his pleasant expression drops entirely. No more fakeness. Just uncensored Gossamer Wormwood.

He sucks in a deep breath. He rises to his feet, slow enough to keep Octavia from attacking him. He looks at her with his jaw set and his eyes unblinking. Two arms gesture to the lobby, then flop to his sides with more disgust and bitterness than Octavia's ever seen from him.

"Alright," he hisses. "Okay. You've got me. I have nothing intangible to offer now that you've found my map. What're you gonna do, shit shoveller? Gonna bake me into a pie? Gonna be a basic bitch about it and just go for my throat?"

Octavia just smirks at him with pride.

"God forbid you be civilised about it all," he goes on, and his sarcasm is—to Octavia's surprise—refreshing to hear. "Yeah, I was covering my own ass with the whole targeting thing, but you just solidified how much of a complete _dumbass_ you are by not even considering it. You want the Gamemakers to target you? You _want_ them to manipulate your death to be the most humiliating thing ever? You're fucking delusional."

"Do go on," Octavia says with glee.

He laughs once, loudly and forcefully.

"No wonder your relationship back in Ten never lasted too," he sneers. Gossamer crosses his arms in front of his chest and nods to Ham accusingly. "Clearly your taste in significant others mirrors your own mess of a personality, and quite frankly I'm _amazed_ you useless wuhluhwuhs haven't accidentally _killed each other_ yet!"

"Wuh-what—"

"For fuck's sake, you're not even _acting_! You're legitimately attracted to walking disasters! What are you, the big disaster and little disaster? Instead of spooning you scream at deafening levels?"

Ham clears her throat loudly.

" _What_ , you absolute _midget_?!"

Octavia is struggling not to laugh at this point. He's just losing his mind right in front of her, all because he's been shot in the _upper thigh_ and had his map stolen, on top of losing his one true ally. She almost wishes they had more than honey to each, because then it would be dinner and a show.

Ham scrunches up her face and folds the map back up. "You literally just said you had a plan to take down the careers, dumbass."

"Pretty intangible reason to keep you alive, if I ever heard one," Octavia agrees. She doesn't even bother to hide the smugness in her tone.

If only she had a camera in this very moment. His face falls ever so slowly, all tension leaving him until finally only his eyes move, bulging to the size of saucers as they dart to the ground. He may as well have thrown his soul from his body and fled to scene, the shame of forgetting his own glorious plan weighing on him more than Octavia's boot ever could.

And she _loves_ it.

After what feels like far too long since Gossamer, of all people, last spoke, he lets out a small, "Ah."

"Welcome to the useless club, sweetie," Octavia coos. She glances at Ham, making sure her ally is standing, and adds, "Hold him down for me."

Ham practically flies at the confused Gossamer. He screeches when the much smaller form tackles him to the ground, his face buried in the floor and his arms flailing about. Octavia only has a few seconds before he overpowers Ham, but the whole time she laughs her ass off. Even as she pulls the rope from the pile Ham left next to Gossamer's bag, Octavia cackles and feels her eyes water.

She takes over Ham's spot on Gossamer's back and makes quick work grabbing one of his arms and folding it over his back, twisting it far enough that it rests against her with no hope of returning to his side unless she moves. She loops the rope around the wrist of the arm and begins the admittedly short process of restraining him. By the end of the struggle, Gossamer's arms are folded over his lower back, linked by the wrists, and there's no sign of the rope becoming loose under any strain he may put it through.

Octavia gets off of him and lets out a satisfied hum. "Much more trustworthy," she notes.

Gossamer's face is still buried against the floor, but his response is clear as day: "You're insufferable."

"Tough," Octavia says. "Now tell me about this career toppling plan before I leave you outside for the owl."

* * *

 **It was hard to follow up a fight in an owl's stomach, but I think I managed it! Let me know what you guys think, and for now I'll leave us with the QQ and eulogies!**

 **QQ #32:** How do you think the alliances are going to get along from here on out?

 **Eulogies:**

 **18th Place: Avita Clements-McMillan, C-District 11, 15 - Sent by HogwartsDreamer113**  
 **Fed poisoned oats by Calico Hemingway**  
Avita was one of the characters in the cast I'd yell at myself for making suffer. She was a lovely kid, naive and raised on Capitol ideals but her heart was still in the right place, even back when she'd first been reaped. I really enjoyed writing her come to terms with the situation and have her develop an appreciation, if not admiration for outer District tributes who lived in hunger far longer than she had in the Games. I wanted to keep true to her personality despite the revelation she'd come to, and alas that meant she'd be naive enough to trust help when help was offered :( Thank you so much for sending her in, Dreamer. I know she didn't get a lot of attention in the pre-Games chapters due to her lack of alliance, but I hope the POVs in the arena stayed true to how you imagined her! She was a darling to write, and I was legitimately proud when she'd discovered the coconut water. Godspeed, you funky little poodle girl.

 **17th Place: Quatra X, C-District 5, 14 - Sent by goldie031  
Killed via knife by Calico Hemingway**  
Writing Quatra has been an absolute joy! She helped a lot with the worldbuilding after I got through reapings, and the fact that she brought a shared plot with Octavia and some interesting Capitol scenes really solidified how important she was to the overall events of Ad Mortem. Her rivalry with Octavia and more quiet personality made her a joy to write, and her relationship with Tooru was one of the few wholesome ones I got to write - so thank you to both Goldie and Celtic for allowing that to happen, and definitely thank you to Goldie for sending a spy and adding in to the world of the Ad Verse in your own way! It was sad to see her go, especially since she could've survived the concussion, but at least now she can rest with Tooru :')

 **16th Place: Daphne Petharaph, District 3, 14 - Sent by Platrium  
Killed via crossbow by Valentina Teagan  
**Okay, I'm not exaggerating when I say Daphne held the closest spot in my heart out of all the tributes. When Plat sent me a tribute with Tourette's, noticing I had the condition listed in my profile, I was really touched by the amount of detail and respect that went into her? Daphne was me back when the tics first started presenting, so writing her was not only easy, but really personal too! I'm super grateful that you let me choose her tics, Plat, since I never thought I'd see the day where I could write someone going through the same struggles as I once did while still doing their best. Daphne and the Quartet were absolutely precious, and while I hate how painfully I killed her, I'm still happy for the opportunity to write her. Again, thank you Plat!

 **15th Place: Adrianne Evans, District 4, 17 - Sent by ThatOtherAsian  
Killed inside the owl by Nikostratos Farrington  
**Adrianne was, by far, one of the sweetest, most lighthearted members of the cast. Her whole relationship with Simi despite her dislike of Capitolites? Blessed. The fact that her whole alliance was full of kids who otherwise may have been bloodbaths? Incredibly blessed. The immense effect she had on her partner despite how little they knew each other? Peak blessing, when will your fave. Seeing her interactions with tributes was a breath of fresh air compared to all the drama going on, and writing her interactions with Sim and seeing her being a rock for him was, not gonna like, really therapeutic to write? I'm so used to depressing things and Adrianne just coming in and making things better kinda helped me through some of the POVs. Hell, Sim's POV in this chapter was going to have a much more grim, depressing ending, but the fact that Adrianne could help even in death gave his section a much more bittersweet note, and I love that she's left that kind of effect on both myself and Sim. Will, thank you so much for sending her in! She was one of the first few characters sent, and I'm super glad I accepted her for District Four!

 **Till next time!**


	39. Night 3

**38 - Night 3**

 **Calico Hemingway, 17, District 8**

He can't stay here any longer. He thought it'd be fine and that maybe Luxor really could get him to the end of the Games, back home in one piece, but right now Calico isn't sure. Every time he looks at Luxor he thinks of those arms constricting around him, caging him in, trapping him, and he feels like he's back in the office with Snow and Nero, no way out of the ultimatum he's been dealt. He's taken back to the feeling of warmth when Atlas and Delaine splattered over him, surrounded him entirely as he stood in horror at the front of the crowd. It's a warmth that makes him afraid, makes him so uneasy that he isn't even sure if afraid is the right word for it.

He just can't stay.

Calico is as silent as possible as he packs the food he'd stolen back into his bag. He's a ghost to the sleeping boys across the room, stealing their supplies—supplies he'd given them in the first place. There won't be a Calico waiting for them when they wake up. There won't be food, nor will there be a hatchet or medicine. It's selfish, he knows others will say. But Calico is on his own, and being on your own in the Hunger Games means doing whatever's necessary to survive.

He zips the backpack up and struggles to sling it over his shoulder. The weight of the extra supplies makes it heavier, just a tad difficult for him to carry. But Calico is determined to leave with everything that will optimise his survival.

A cough bubbles up from his chest. Calico forces it down, hand clamped over his mouth and nose, as he watches the sleeping boys for any sign of rousing. Seconds pass. Minutes. Neither seems to be awake, softly snoring away into their pillows.

It feels like he's walking on eggshells when he leaves the room. Any section of the floor could creak under him, alerting his former allies to his retreat. He's not sure if he can outrun them. Finn, for sure, but Luxor is… Well, models don't get their physiques by just sitting around and doing nothing. But he makes it to the staircase leading to the ground floor. He descends with barely a sound from below, the mansion almost aiding his escape. His feet land on the carpet of the ground floor, the lobby, and Calico lets out a small breath. Halfway there, he thinks.

Or so he would like to believe, but he finds himself distracted rather quickly upon reaching the lobby. At first he thinks it's a screen that hadn't turned off, but the flashing in the corner of his eye is too small, too infrequent to be a screen. Calico rubs at his eyes and turns on the spot; wherever the flashing was coming from, it was definitely not where a screen would project. Not unless this house was built for strange people who like to watch soap operas from under the staircase.

Calico walks to the underside of the staircase and spots the source of the light within an instant. There aren't any matches or flashlights in his bag, as far as he knows, but he's been awake long enough that his eyes have adjusted to the darkness. Enough to at least make out the shape of the flashing.

He rubs his eyes again. Blinks at the light. It's still there, flashing away like nothing's wrong. But Calico knows damn well that the flashing isn't as innocent as it looks.

Not with that white, rectangular packet strapped to the wall. Not with the wiring that's been jammed into the packet, connecting to the little green light.

Calico abandons subtlety and breaks into the best sprint he can. He forces open the lobby door, exposing himself to the cold air outside, and he heads straight for the entrance of the suburbia. Calico refuses to stop until he crosses the threshold of the gates. His lungs burn and he's choking on the air, but he doesn't stop for even a second. It isn't until Calico stumbles over the metal along the entrance that he slows, and then he stops completely once he realises he's _out_. He looks over his shoulder, back at the suburbia that Finn and Luxor are still sleeping inside.

A scoff of a laugh comes out before he can stop himself. Calico shakes his head, squats down in a position better suited for regaining his breath. He just stays there, panting between his knees and struggling against the heavy weight on his back.

Calico drops the bag to the ground and unzips it. There has to be something he can pull out and carry in his hands, take off some of the weight on his back. Nothing too heavy, but just enough to keep going without as much struggle. He stuffs a hand in, feels the handle of the hatchet, and he pauses. Best to look at what he's doing, he thinks. Slicing open his hand would be pretty ridiculous after the effort he just put into leaving his alliance.

So he peeks inside, evaluates each item he'd stuffed in there. Medicine, food, chemistry kit, blanket—

Calico yanks out the blanket without a second thought. He can definitely carry this separately, and it'll keep him warm while he finds somewhere else to hide for the time being. Calico puts the backpack on backwards, the contents at his front, and then he drapes the woollen blanket over his shoulders like a cloak. It must be heavier than it looks, he thinks, because the bag is so much lighter without the blanket stuffed in the bottom.

He follows the road of Mason Street until he reaches a crossroads, one path leading to the lake centre and the other continuing down to a new street entirely. He remembers going the latter when he'd done the perimeter check and encountered the Capitol girls. After all the commotion yesterday, he doubts that anyone will be at the lake centre. Calico turns left, a silent prayer muttered under his breath, and trudges on to the exit of Mason Street.

It's a gamble, for sure, and he can't say how long he'll last without water. He isn't sure how many people will take pity on him—on Cham being made uncomfortable, he supposes—but he doesn't like his chances of being sponsored anything. More so, Luxor has a horde of fans back in the Capitol. Will they side with the little blond who pushed him away? Absolutely not. If anything, the situation of being stuck in the Hunger Games with Luxor is a fantasy trip for some of these people.

Calico shudders under the blanket as he approaches the opening, leaving Mason Street behind him. He wonders if they imagine Luxor's professional side. If they imagine the suave, silent model they see him as. Or do they imagine him as the person he really is? Well-meaning, but certainly far from executing it properly? A—and Calico hates that this is the most accurate term for it— _hot mess_?

He hugs the blanket tighter around him, almost squashing his bag against his chest. He had so much faith in Luxor in the beginning. Didn't immediately report Calico as a rebel (even if unintentional), and he even went so far as to protect his secret from others as best he could. He'd _ask_ to touch Calico, didn't yell or get frustrated when he clammed up and stopped _acting_ emotions. The only time Luxor had seen Calico do anything remotely emotional for real was during the interviews, and it'd been such a mess.

Calico isn't proud of how easily Luxor had found him, hiding under the table of a nearby stylist work station. He isn't proud of how he'd screamed about how much of a monster he was, forgetting his friends so easily. He isn't even proud of how he'd yelled at Luxor that he'd die because of Calico, because he was too stunned to volunteer rather than pretend to be Cham. It'd been _horrible_. It was everything Calico wanted to avoid in his life, because he just couldn't _process it_.

And he'd been so fast to trust Luxor as soon as he'd said, "You did what you had to."

What a fool you were, Calico Hemingway.

His legs collapse under him when he reaches the edge of the lake. It's brighter than he thought it'd be, like a bioluminescent glow is coming from the depths. He thinks he can see some of the glowing move around every few seconds. Fish? It must be. If he were more confident he'd try catch a few, but right now he has doubts about his abilities.

Calico stuffs his face into the blanket and lets out a harsh cough. Ever since coming into the arena his lungs have suffered, and even now he finds himself wishing he'd listened to Luxor when the boy had insisted Calico, whose airways were most vulnerable, take one of the air masks they had between them. His throat burns with every cough and he can feel fluid flying through his teeth. Calico wheezes as best he can between each cough, until finally the episode passes.

Were it not for the bioluminescent fish, he might never have seen the blood smearing the corner of his blanket. But there's more than enough light available, and Calico can only stare as the mixture of blood and spit slowly begins to dry.

* * *

 **Cetronia Livius, 17, District 2**

All it takes is three days and three nights for the most outrageous of things to happen. Three days for the owl to finally make its move, swallowing two whole and killing just one; three nights for the sole survivor to stumble his way back to the owl's nest, standing just a few feet shy of Cyber's mines.

Cetronia lifts the lantern from its hook and carries it with her to the opening of the cornucopia. Behind her Morganite and Valentina keep their weapons at the ready. Cyber is still in what must be considered sleep mode, unaware of their new guest. It's just the mines and Cetronia standing between Croix and the vast array of supplies that will keep him alive one day further.

She takes one step out of the cornucopia and holds the lantern up to get a better view of Croix.

"What brings you here?" she calls out. There's a small groan behind her, a sign that Cyber has awoken.

Croix, covered in mild burns and looking the most disheveled she's ever seen him, just shrugs and leans against the doorframe. "I was in the neighbourhood," he replies. "Thought I'd drop by."

Cetronia grunts.

"Your visit is noted," she says. "Leave."

"And after all the trouble I went through to escape your owl? Cetronia, you wound me."

She adjusts her grip on the lamp. "I'm about to."

His shoulders shake with laughter, but he seems to be smart enough not to take a step inside. Cetronia has to commend him for that much, and it gives her enough peace of mind to turn back around and wave a hand at her allies. Morganite lowers her knives with great reluctance, but Valentina keeps the crossbow aimed at Croix.

Cetronia smirks. Cautious, just the way she should be. She turns back to face Croix just as Cyber opens his eyes, casting a cyan glow against the cornucopia walls.

"What do you want?" she tries again. Croix runs a hand through his hair—scowls at what must be a few strands that come out with the action—and stands up straight again.

" _Well_ ," he starts. "I thought I could be of _wonderful_ use to you, Miss Livius! I mean, not only am I vastly more knowledgeable when it comes to the Games, but I got a peek at a little something you're going to _love_."

She rolls her eyes and looks back to the trio in the cornucopia.

"You," she says to Valentina. The blond startles, lowering her crossbow. "How much do you know about the Games? Behind the scenes?"

The hesitation speaks levels, and Cetronia barely gives her time to actually answer once the seconds tick by. She only knows a limited amount, which means Croix isn't bluffing when he puts his Gamemaker ambitions on the line. Which also means she might have to actually give him a chance.

Cetronia sighs through her nose. She really, _really_ wanted to wash her hands of Croix and Gossamer once the bloodbath ended. As devious and intelligent as they are, they're far from what she would consider allies.

"What is it?" she says.

And Croix just taps his forehead with a smug smile. If there weren't rows of mines separating them, she'd storm over and punch the expression off of his face. She doesn't have time for this—Cetronia was trained to utilise her time efficiently, and Croix being coy is stopping her from going out and hunting. If he sees where she leaves through, he may even try sneak in later. The bastard has the height for it, at least.

Cetronia backtracks to her blanket pile and pulls her morningstar from the folds, slinging it over her shoulder nonchalantly. She nods to Cyber, now awake and alert, and commands, "Lead him through the safest route."

Cyber looks at Croix once, then back to Cetronia. "I could kill him," he points out. It's not an offer, but more a warning. _Can you really trust me?_

Luckily for Cyber, trust isn't what's holding the alliance together.

"Then you kill him," she says with a shrug.

"He would appreciate dying a little less despicably," Croix calls out.

Cetronia smirks back at him. She hangs the lamp back up on its hook and puts her free hand on Cyber's shoulder.

"That's up to the kid to decide. Good luck," she adds.

She sits back down on the blanket pile and keeps her weapon handy. Cyber begins calling out instructions to Croix, apparently safe for him to traverse, and Cetronia can only wait. Wait for Cyber to lead Croix, either to his death or to the cornucopia. Wait for the right time to leave for another hunt. Wait for another day in the arena to end.

Valentina sits next to her as they watch the spectacle. She's been doing that lately, standing or sitting closer to Cetronia like a safety blanket; Cetronia assumes it's all the praise, from her sabotage to the kill she'd scored yesterday, but for all she knows it could just be fear. Fighting other tributes, and even being under the watchful gaze of the owl—Valentina could be relying on Cetronia to keep the terrors at bay, if only because she's proven her strength right before their eyes.

Both girls settle into the blanket pile while Morganite lays back down. She looks exhausted, and it's reflected in how quickly she falls asleep. Once Morganite enters a deep sleep, Valentina sets down her crossbow on the ground.

"You really think we can trust him?" she asks. Cetronia gives her a sidelong glance.

"Which one?" she mutters. "The cyborg or the brat?"

Valentina sniffs, scrunching up her face. "Nikostratos. Cyber is… something else entirely. I'm more worried about Nikostratos, though."

"If he makes it, he makes it," Cetronia says. "If he really does have something that I'll like the sound of, then perhaps he might even live to see another day."

"You sound confident."

"Do I?"

The floorboard creaks. Cyber and Croix go silent, breaths held as they wait for whatever reaction they're expecting. When nothing happens, Croix immediately begins threatening Cyber in a low, but still stressed tone.

It isn't until Croix is halfway to the cornucopia that Cetronia bothers to ask Valentina about Gossamer. It's rare to see the two apart, and Morganite and Valentina were the last to see them together.

"Did you see which way Gossamer went after the owl ate Croix?" she asks softly.

Valentina nods. "He went over to the big building over in the, uh… East…?"

"East," Cetronia agrees.

"It was where they'd come from in the first place," Valentina adds.

Cetronia hums. At least they know that much on their own. It won't be hard to tie up that particular loose end if Croix doesn't turn out to be a good source of information. Gossamer's injured, after all, and the only weapon he had is with his former ally. Unless he has some food and to keep him going, he's easy pickings.

She turns her gaze back to Croix, now at the very edge of the minefield and receiving final instructions from Cyber. She'll hold off hunting tonight, she thinks. It can't hurt to take a break and use her free time to formulate a proper plan—especially since the first tribute she'd seen got away so easily on the first night. With a better strategy in mind, and perhaps with the help of someone who knows how the Games work, she can start making steady progress to going home a victor.

Cetronia lets out a huff of a laugh. "I guess I am confident," she muses.

* * *

 **Oryza Belfast, 15, District 9**

There's only so much the electrolyte sticks in their first-aid kit can do. Bel stares down at the three left in the bag, then at the ten wrappers scattered around her makeshift bed. They'd been rationing as best as they could, limiting themselves to two a day, but now it feels useless. Bel is _starving_ —she's never gone this long without even just a few crumbs and some water.

She pulls one of the sticks out and hands it to Church. He's starting to wear down, but not as much as she is. He's sleeping a little longer than on the first day, and twice she's caught him stumble while walking around the attic. As strong as he's acting for her sake, giving her hope, she can still see the cracks in the foundation. Church takes the electrolyte stick and stares down at it with a blank gaze. She wonders if he knew they'd wind up like this. She wonders if it's always this hard to eat in the Games.

Bel opens her own, and she ignores the over-sweetened flavour of the stick. Even just a little water to wash the taste down would do wonders.

The sticks take no time to finish. She lays back down on the makeshift bed they'd fashioned from old couch cushions and thin sheets, and she stares at the ceiling while the seconds tick by. She really misses her parents. She really misses her brother. She really misses _home_.

When Church nudges her shoulder she sits back up, and she watches his face intently. It's hard to see when it's so dark already, and the stars only do so much to help her see through the attic window. She watches his lips move, runs the movements over in her head again and again. Finally, after countless assumptions based on words she'd seen uttered before, her stomach leaps for joy once his intentions become apparent. Bel gasps and smiles widely at Church, and he returns it without hesitation.

He's going looking for food.

As much as she wants to come with him, he insists she rest while he's out. The attic has been pretty safe so far, since no one's found them yet, so it's not like she can argue about it. But she doesn't want to be left entirely on her own, especially if something happens to him out there. Will he at least take the medicine kit? She asks him as much, and Church very slowly picks up the bag with their supplies in it. He empties it of more pressing, more drastic supplies, until finally there's enough room for him to tuck his hatchet inside.

Bel watches him climb down the ladder, and after a few seconds he decides to leave it open for her. Bel gives Church a thumbs-up while she watches him leave. Minutes pass. Five, ten, twenty—and then she sighs, turns back for her bed. She just has to wait now, and that's going to be the most excruciating part.

She recalls something Church had told her back in the Capitol, almost as soon as he'd found out her parents sheltered her from the Games. She remembers him saying that there were almost always ferocious animals, muttations, in every arena. She remembers him saying that the Gamemakers have all the power once you're launched. What she remembers best, though, is the sliver of hope she'd been given when he'd said that tributes were always, no matter when or where, broadcast live to Panem. And if it means what she thinks it does, then her family is watching her right now.

Bel feels the anxiety tug at her chest. She's never been away from her family this long, either. When did she last see them? It's already been three days in the arena, then the interview night. Plus the three days of training, then the parade… Almost ten days, Bel realises grimly. She hasn't seen her family in almost ten days.

She needs to tell them herself how she's doing.

Bel sits on her bed cross-legged, deep breaths in and deep breaths out. She holds up her hands, waits a few seconds; once she's sure that whatever monitoring system here is focused on her, she moves.

 _I miss you all._

 _The other kids are really competitive._

 _The girl who chased us scares me._

 _Church is very nice._

 _He makes sure I'm okay every day._

 _He even stopped me from watching the bloodbath._

Her hands start to shake. Bel has to take a moment, lips quivering as the anxiety continues to grow. Are they even watching now? What if they miss her messages? What will have been the point?

But then the memory of calling out for her mother hits her, and Bel feels a whine slip from her throat.

 _I'm really, really scared._

 _Why do we have to do this?_

 _I just want to go home._

 _I just want to be with you all again._

 _I love you, Mom._

 _I love you, Dad._

 _I love you, Pento._

 _Please give me strength._

Bel can't stop her hands from shaking. Breathing is difficult as reality sets in, as her heart aches from the separation. It just overwhelms her as she lays back down on the bed. Her legs won't move, and all the energy from the electrolyte stick may as well have gone out the window. Maybe it's for the best that Church left her here. Someone might hear her if she happens to cry too loud.

Maybe she can still be useful, she thinks. Checking the house can't hurt, and Church did leave the ladder down for her. She might not have something to defend herself with, but at least she can get a good look around.

Even with wobbly legs and less energy than usual, Bel still makes it down the loose ladder. Church told her it always makes a loud creaking sound whenever they climb it, and she chews her lip as ever so slowly the panic over how much noise she may be making creeps into her mind. She perseveres until her feet touch the floor, and then Bel looks up and down the hall the ladder lands in. She hasn't really seen much of the house yet—neither has Church, since they've been avoiding the outside world after the first night. But maybe she can change that tonight. If she has a good lay of the area, she might be able to suggest other places for them to hide! If someone comes looking for them, they might check the attic first, right?

Yes, Bel thinks with growing optimism. This is how she can be useful, even with her lack of knowledge about the Games. Church won't have to do everything himself, not anymore. Bel can _help_.

The first room in the hall she finds is a bathroom, and Bel takes a moment to inspect it. Her home doesn't have the best of bathrooms, but this place looks like heaven. A large shower, a larger bathtub—made of that fancy white material from the Capitol!—and a mirror so big she can see the whole room in it. Bel wonders what kind of people would've lived here, had the earthquake and tsunami not happened. What kinds of things would they use instead of plain goat's milk soap?

The second room, further down the hall, looks to be a big bedroom. The bed is all over the place, pillows torn and dressers overturned around it, but Bel can guess which member of the family would sleep in here. She can see her parents relaxing in the big room, finally granted more space than just their small shack in District Nine. The broken window behind the bed even has a really nice view of the rest of the street, and as Bel walks further inside she can see the night sky clearer than before. She wishes the houses back home were built like this. She wishes the view from her shack was as good as this.

She turns on her heel, ready to inspect the rest of the house. Who knows how many more rooms there are? But Bel stops in her tracks and blinks rapidly at the door she'd come through. She waits a second, waits a moment, and then she moves cautiously out the door. The ladder is still down, but one of its rungs is flashing every so often. Bel stares at the single wooden board, at the green light appearing beneath it. She wonders if Church had noticed it on his way out.

When Bel is finally back to the ladder, she finds the source of the light. She finds the little plastic box strapped to the bottom of the rung, and she watches as the light continues to flash with no sign of stopping.

Is this bad? She feels like it might be bad. This kind of stuff isn't always available for use where she's from, but something just feels _off_ about it all. The wires, the plastic box, the green light flashing above a small glass globe that has yet to come to life. She may not know what it is from the top of her head, but Bel's instincts are more than making up for that—and they're saying she'd better tell Church when he comes back, no matter what.

Bel abandons exploring the house. The possibility of something happening now that she knows about the box is too heavy to ignore. She sneaks back up the ladder, hands shaking once more, and returns to her bed. She's still helping, she tells herself. But she's being safe about it, so Church doesn't worry.

* * *

 **Cyber Tronovsky, 12, C-District 7**

Four A.M.

Start of a new day, he supposes. The sun hasn't risen yet, won't rise for another hour and seventeen minutes, so he could argue it's still nighttime. It makes pushing himself to stay awake easier. It makes his caution feel valid.

Across the cornucopia, Croix watches him. Ever since being welcomed inside, his information about the map Gossamer had been sponsored shared, he's been sitting patiently on his own. Cyber doesn't trust him. Cyber almost wishes he'd given him the wrong instructions and put an end to the tense situation sooner. But what's done is done, and so he sits in the dark between Croix and the girls.

Cetronia called it a night an hour ago. She's got a plan, and she wants to sleep longer than usual to make up for the hours she'll be active. Croix said something about being too full of adrenalin to sleep, but Cyber doesn't believe it for a second. Even if it's true, he doesn't trust him not to do something. So he sits, waits, and watches for the first sign of exhaustion from the older teen.

Croix doesn't seem to have any intention of sleeping any time soon, though.

"So," Croix says slowly. Behind Cyber, Valentina stirs in her sleep. Croix glances down at her and lowers his voice. "You're a rather special one."

Cyber blinks at him once. He's so used to not changing his expression that it may as well be child's play keeping up his poker face. "In a way."

"How much of you is machine?"

Standard question, but it's obvious he's scoping out Cyber. If he's planning to kill them in secret, vagueness is key.

"Eighty percent."

Croix huffs a laugh. He nods his head once at Cyber, a silent kudos for his answer.

"And your emotions? Last I heard, they'd been shut off."

Shut off, like he's all-machine. Never mind the fact that Cyber's brain and heart are still human, even if the majority of him isn't.

" _Removed_ ," Cyber says shortly. "Shutting off emotions entirely is impossible. My capability for them was _removed_."

"Semantics," Croix dismisses. "How'd you get them back?"

Isn't it obvious? Cyber furrows his brow and stares unblinking at Croix's expression. He can't see any confusion, any genuine curiosity; is he just getting him to confirm it out loud? Why? Is there something about admitting to the sabotages out loud that Cyber doesn't know? Or is Croix just trying to make him overthink?

Regardless of what it is, Cyber holds his ground and says, "You and I both know you're smart enough to figure it out on your own."

Another nod of kudos, and then Croix is smiling as he leans back against the wall. He's as far as he can get without being out of sight, and Cyber has a feeling Cetronia knew he'd stay up all night to make sure Croix went to sleep before him.

"Your whole thing with your dad," Croix goes on, still smiling, "is rather interesting. From what I heard the live feed of your interview got cut off, and audience members were forced to sign gag orders with regards to it. I find it rather curious that a simple, loving father and scientist from Three's death has to be censored."

 _He's trying to get to you_ , Cyber tells himself. _Classic trick to throw someone's concentration off._

"My father was murdered," Cyber says evenly, "and it was for the technology I was made from. The technology that saved my life."

"Funny. I haven't seen any technology similar to your own design in the Capitol. How many years has it been?"

Cyber scowls at him. "Are you accusing me of lying?"

Croix shrugs. "Your words, not mine," he sings.

Tactics to throw him off or not, Cyber won't stand for this thread of conversation. He rises from the pile, throws his blanket down where he'd been sitting, and he clenches his fists tightly by his sides.

"Are you," Cyber hisses slowly, every word enunciated, "calling me a liar?"

"I'm not saying anything," Croix chuckles. "If I _were_ to say something, it'd be more along the lines of your father selling you to keep himself afloat and reprogramming you. Was there even a body? How do you know all your memories are real if your emotions can be ' _removed_ ' so easily?"

Cyber's charging before he can stop himself. He's never heard his feet make such loud thuds against a floor before, his footsteps always measured and careful, but all caution is out the window right now. No, Cyber is running, screaming, and he's got Croix in his sights.

" _Don't you dare say that about him!_ " Cyber screams. He lands on Croix, knocks him to the floor. He raises his fist, holds him by the collar of his shirt. Croix smirks, he _smirks_ —

"Enough!"

Two arms loop around him, pulling him off the teen with ease. Cyber howls and screeches, fights against whoever's pulled him away. This bastard deserves it, he insists. Why won't they just let him punch him?

It isn't until he's slammed on the ground, forced out of commission and left to watch as Croix just keeps smirking that he realises who's got him. Cetronia doesn't hold back with restraining him, and while it hurts—it hurts so much—he can't bring himself to scream in pain. He can't bring himself to abandon his rage while Croix is still here.

"What happened?" Cetronia demands. Valentina and Morganite have their weapons ready again, and they've got them trained on Croix—rightfully so.

"He insulted my dad!" Cyber yells. "He insulted my memories of him!"

Croix shrugs as he stands back up. He dusts off his clothes so terribly casually. "I was suggesting his memories were tampered with," he says innocently. Cyber screeches at him, but Croix persists. "It's rather easy to do, if you've got the knowledge to build a body that's almost lifelike. You can't always trust things at face value, right?"

"I should've steered you into a mine!"

"I mean…" Cyber freezes when he hears Valentina's voice. She can't possibly agree with Croix, can she? "It's possible. Even if it wasn't programming, there's always brainwashing…"

Cyber struggles against Cetronia's grip. "I _wasn't_ brainwashed!" he yells.

He kicks and yells, even as the silence between the others drags on. They can't be siding against him, right? They've known him longer than Croix—they know his intentions better than Croix's!

But the silence only drags on, and Croix's smirk only grows. Cyber can feel the dread in his stomach as Cetronia shifts her grip.

"Regardless," she says, "you still attacked him. We've established that his information is valuable."

Cetronia lifts Cyber up, holding him in her arms and preventing him from fighting back. She turns for the opening of the cornucopia, and as she walks out she calls over her shoulder, "Bring one of the staffs we have."

Morganite scrambles for a box filled with weapons, yanking out a bo staff without question. Cyber can't believe what's going on right now. They're seriously taking Croix's side? After all he's done? After all he's said?

"Cetronia," Cyber begs, "please, he provoked me! He was trying to get a reaction!"

"I know," she says. Cyber lets out a sob at the statement. _Why_ , then? Why this? She walks closer and closer to the storage room behind the cornucopia, where the double doors can easily be locked with the bo staff jammed between the handles. "For both your safeties, it's better to keep you away from him."

Just as they reach the doors, Cyber kicks out and begins yelling again. "Lock him up instead! _I'm_ your ally! Won't it be easier to keep an eye on him if you—"

"Then there's the risk of you cornering him." Her tone is final. Morganite opens the doors, and Cyber is thrown unceremoniously inside. He lands with a thud, his body sliding along the floor. Pain explodes all over—but it's greatest source is his right elbow. "This is for our best interest."

Cyber gets up and charges at the door, but he's too late. They're shut, the bo staff wedged in place, and he's left on his own in the windowless storage room. Is this what Croix wanted, he thinks? To get the planner, the forethinker, out of the picture? He slides down the door, dropping to the floor as he analyses the conversation. His elbow still hurts, distracting him every so often, and he can't hear any conversation on the other side of the doors.

When he feels at his elbow, he gasps and twists his arm as far as he can to see the damage. Some of the synthetic skin has torn, a piece of his metal skeleton exposed. It's barely an inch of tearing, but it's still substantial damage compared to all the torment he'd suffered at the hands of Capitol children.

Cyber closes his eyes and runs a hand down his face. Even if he gets out of here, no one is going to be able to fix this. The one person who knew what they were doing was his father—and Cyber, despite the insults thrown at him tonight, knows _exactly_ where that option went. He holds his elbow and lays on the floor. He buries his face against the wood panels and forces himself back to sleep, to the idleness he'd denied himself of all night.

* * *

 **Here we go! Night 3 is out, and hopefully Day 4 won't be too far off! As usual, lemme know what you think and I'll leave you with a QQ!**

 **QQ #33:** Which POV stood out most to you and why?

 **Simple question, but there wasn't much that happened that warrants a whole question for it I think. I'd still love to know what you think!**


	40. Day 4

**It took a while, but we're back with day 4! Hopefully the next chapter won't take as long?**

 **QQ at the bottom of the chapter like usual!**

* * *

 **39 - Day 4**

 **Luxor Aricunai, 17, C-District 8**

He's never been as distressed as he is now. The haze of sleep had kept him calm for only a few moments before reality came crashing down, and now Luxor is tearing apart the already trashed mansion for any sign of either Calico or their supplies.

Finn runs his hands through his hair every so often. He'll look helplessly to Luxor in between, then train a lost stare to the floor as their situation becomes more and more clear to him.

"It's all gone," Luxor hears Finn mutter. The limping boy is struggling down the stairs to the ground floor, where Luxor sits cross-legged and holds his head in his hands. "The medicine… The food… All we have are…"

Luxor nods. "The spare bow. At least the arrows were left behind, but we don't have a replacement if this one breaks."

Despair reeks through the air. Despite all the previous hardships he's suffered, this is the one that brings Luxor to a halt. He's legitimately lost, uncertain if his next step will keep both him and Finn alive or not. More than that, he's scared—scared for Calico, scared of what's happening beyond the suburbia, scared over how defenseless they all are. Luxor has no idea why his alliance had fallen apart over the course of a night, but he sure as hell wants to salvage what's left of it with all of his power.

But he doesn't know just what kind of power he has to manage that.

"We need to get our stuff back," he says, "and we need to make sure C—" He scrunches up his nose. He knows Calico is trying to hide his identity, that he should logically say Chambray's name out loud, but it feels so off now that he knows the truth behind it all.

"We need to make sure our friend is okay," he says instead.

"What if we can't?" Finn asks. "We were asleep all night and we have no idea when Cham left."

Luxor frowns. He doesn't want to consider the possibility that he'll never find Calico or their supplies. He wants to ignore such a bleak scenario, but it's so difficult when it's the most likely one of them all. Finding Calico would be a stroke of luck—finding him alive will be a straight up miracle. It's been made clear many times, after all, that Calico is the most physically weak of the tributes. Calico himself has little hope for his overall strength.

Maybe he should focus on what's in front of him, rather than what's out of his reach.

Luxor looks up at Finn, who's now at the bottom of the stairs. He's rubbing his leg with a pained expression, and he doesn't even notice that Luxor rises to his feet and walks over to join him. Luxor puts a hand on his shoulder, surprising Finn, and takes in a deep breath.

"We have to make do with what's around us," he decides. Finn blinks, confused. Luxor doesn't stop. There's all sorts of things he's known about making materials last and getting creative with what's around you; he may not have had to use the knowledge, but Capitol kids learned a whole lot of useless things thanks to the Hunger Games and history lessons about pre-modern Panem.

Luxor closes his eyes and thinks back to all the lessons he'd learned without realising. What's the most important thing tributes in past Games did first?

Finn hisses, leans against the railing to put weight off of his leg. Luxor zeroes in on the limb and snaps the fingers of his other hand.

"Stay right here," he tells Finn, and then he's climbing the stairs two at a time for the nearest bedroom. He comes to a small guest bedroom, where a double bed mattress sits unused in the corner atop a broken frame. It's big enough for Finn, maybe Luxor if he feels tired, and it's just the right weight to move around without hurting himself.

Luxor tips it onto one of its sides and hauls it out of the room with audible effort. He can feel his nails snag on the material every so often, one even folding backwards and making him yelp, but Luxor makes it to the railing above the lobby. Finn stares up at him in bewilderment, and it isn't until Luxor upends the mattress over the railing that the plan clicks.

Huffing and panting, Luxor calls down to Finn, "Test it."

The mattress supports him perfectly, and Finn doesn't even have trouble getting back up afterwards. Just the right amount of thickness to keep from straining his leg. Finn throws him a thumbs up and smiles weakly, and Luxor returns it as he collapses against the railing.

Okay, reducing the strain on Finn's leg is taken care of. What else can he handle while he's up here? The pack had blankets and masks, so maybe look for a closet? He murmurs a soft agreement to himself. Yeah, that's a good second step.

Three lots of duvets and sheets are tipped over the railing, landing on the mattress and carefully set aside by Finn. Luxor grabs a fourth sheet, ready to throw this one over as well, but stops short when he glances in the direction of the kitchen. He bundles the sheet under his arm and descends the stairs. There's some use for it yet.

"What next?" Finn asks. Luxor points towards the door leading to the dining room, where the kitchen resides on the other side.

"In the Capitol," he wheezes, still struggling to get his breath. He's moving non-stop, afraid he'll forget something or get exhausted quicker if he stops for even a moment. "We… We make sure to store our food extra carefully… Some days the Districts can't grow as much to support us and themselves…"

"You think there's food that we can still eat?"

"If not food," Luxor gasps, "then maybe supplements."

Finn follows him to the kitchen and makes himself busy moving the chairs and long table in the dining room to one side of the room. Luxor makes a mental note to come back to the furniture, certain it will have its uses in the future. He lays the sheet out flat on the kitchen floor and bends down to open his lungs, get some air back in them; as soon as the wheezing in his throat subsides, Luxor moves for the pantry and pulls away the warped, water-damaged door barely held up by its hinges. That's something else that can some in handy, and he props it up against the nearest wall before raiding the pantry.

The first thing he sees is the plastic packet of powdered milk, and Luxor lets out a weak cheer. He places it on the sheet, and soon more items join: Uncooked pasta, cans of corn, rice, _maple syrup._ It's a treasure trove of foods that would be useless on their own normally, but right now it's everything that will keep them alive one day longer. Whoever lived in this house probably had problems with food spoiling too quickly, and Luxor thanks every force known to man that it was their mansion they'd set up shop in.

More than that, if he can find a pot and start a fire then he can introduce Finn to the simple joy of popcorn.

Luxor does just that, moving on to the cupboards around him and climbing into them for any sign of useable cooking ware. Some of the pots and pans are cracked and missing handles, but he finds a few warped gems among them. Luxor stacks them on the sheet as well, mindful of the food, and moves on to the next cupboard. The bowls and plates are in a similar state, majority of them too damaged to use, but there are some still good enough to use. He pulls out a plate missing a large chunk of its side, still able to hold food, and then places a thick bowl on top of it. There's plastic bowls, significantly smaller but still better than nothing. He adds them to the pile and moves on.

By the time Luxor makes it to the fridge, Finn hovering behind him as though waiting for direction, he's found enough things to live off of without a worry—if only they had water, that is.

"Big fridge," Finn tries, hoping to end the silence. Luxor nods. "Think something good will be in there?"

Luxor shrugs. "Bottled water? Maybe?"

Finn nods. He brushes past Luxor, hand resting on the handle of the fridge. When the boys make eye contact, Finn sucks in a deep breath and yanks open the door.

A single bottle—one litre, unopened—drops out and onto the floor. Luxor can feel himself smile as he sees the clear liquid inside, probably room temperature but still a good sign nonetheless. He drops to the floor, grabs it with both hands, and brings it up to his face.

 _Mineral water_ , the label says. Luxor's smile falls.

"We can't…" Luxor sets the bottle down and hangs his head. "Can we even boil this?"

"It's water."

"It's _mineral water_. Is it safe to boil? What if it messes something up and we make ourselves sick?"

Finn snorts and leans down to pick up the water. He unscrews the cap, grabs a plastic cup from the collection on the sheet, and pours the water into it. He hands the cup to Luxor, and with an innocent smile says, "Go ahead."

It tastes like regular mineral water, and Luxor isn't sure how this is supposed to make him feel more confident.

"So we have these cafes in Six, right? And they get stuff imported from all over Panem because they make a lot of money and the victors like to eat out sometimes." Finn shrugs and sets the bottle on the sheet carefully. "One day my sister asked how mineral water was different from regular water, and the cashier told us it's just purified. Less bacteria in it or something."

Luxor… never knew this prior. He always thought mineral water was water with extra minerals in it—like the name implies. It tastes so different to regular water, too. How could he not think it's been added to? Luxor lets out a small huff, which soon turns into a light chuckle.

At least they both know enough to get by.

"Alright," Luxor says, breathing out a sigh of relief. He stands back up and joins Finn by the door of the fridge, ready to dole out one more piece of knowledge before they return to the mattress. "If I ever have to leave and you need somewhere to hide, these fridges were designed to fit a grown adult inside. Just open the door and curl up inside, and when you need to close it—" He taps the tray on the door that would normally hold bottles of water and the like. "—just pull on this."

Finn nods. He even practices in front of Luxor, pulling out the trays and settling himself inside. He shuts the door, sits there for a while, and then opens it to give Luxor a thumbs up. "Perfect fit," he says. It's enough good news to raise Luxor's hopes.

With their makeshift fort and defenses in place, Luxor prepares his bow and arrows and sets off in search of a nearby tribute they can steal from.

* * *

 **Epsilon Church, 17, C-District 9**

With every hour that passes, the pains in his stomach become greater and greater. He's never gone this long without even a crumb, and even Bel has begun to notice the toll it's taken on his body. Church is sluggish, lethargic, and despite all the electrolytes in his system he's still _lacking_. It's the weakest he's felt in a long time, and he's not sure how much longer he can take it.

Between dying of thirst and dying of starvation, both as agonisingly slow as the other, he thinks he prefers starvation. His throat isn't quite as dry, his breathing not quite as laboured—but it still aches, worse than any dehydration could ever inflict, and it's still too slow for him to handle.

The worst part of it all is that Bel is closer to death than he is. For all the smiles and cheer she shows him, a brave face to make him worry less, her stomach growls non-stop at all hours of the day. She's used to the starvation, but she's still weaker and quicker to perish to it. It horrifies Church, the thought of coming back to her passed out from hunger. He's already had a few blackouts in the house, away from Bel, and he can only imagine how often she suffers whenever he goes out in search of food.

Church stumbles drunkenly down the street with his hatchet loosely held in his hand. He can't afford to go back empty-handed today. For even just Bel's sake, he has to bring _something_ back. Medical rations won't keep this alive for much longer.

He's been patrolling the area daily, unwilling to get too close to the town hall, but no one else seems to be coming near. This entire corner of the arena is abandoned, everyone else unwilling to make that trek past the lake and the wall that is Cetronia. It'd been reassuring at first, their safety confirmed after they'd lost Cetronia. Now it's going to be their undoing. If Church doesn't find food today, he'll have no choice but to move them closer to the other tributes. Closer to the danger.

His toes hook behind his ankle, and Church barely keeps from tripping over entirely by throwing his weight at a broken fence. Three days ago he could cover twice as much ground before losing his footing. He's barely even reached the end of Quanta Street today.

Church buries his face in his arm. How pathetic. This is why his mother's dead. This is why his sister isn't recovering. He's so pathetic and useless, bringing despair to others no matter where he goes. They all give him kindness, and he repays it with misfortune.

What a blight to the existence of others you are, Epsilon Church.

He pushes himself away from the fence. He stumbles, but he keeps himself upright. He'll finish Quanta Street today, and then he'll get Bel to come to a different house with him. Maybe it'll have food that isn't expired or ruined by the elements, and they can just force it to last as long as possible. Church's stomach gurgles loudly. Yes, maybe changing their home base will be for the better.

There's a sound in the distance, soft and almost prone to being dismissed as just the wind; Church would've dismissed it any other day, too, but now he pauses. He strains his ears. He begs it to ring out again.

The crinkling of plastic. A small whimper of self-restraint.

His legs move on their own. His grip tightens on the hatchet. Someone's in the street, his mind chants over and over. Someone has food. He licks chapped lips and lets his feet drag along the pavement, steering him in the direction of the sounds. The hatchet no longer feels as heavy in his hand. He knows what he has to do now, especially with such a tempting lifeline dangling in front of him.

Church arrives at the alleyway before he even realises it. A crunch of dry food rings out, followed by the sound of the plastic bag being folded. Whoever's there is rationing as best they can, and they've decided a handful of food is enough for now. Church hovers at the edge of the alleyway. He listens to the movements, the chanting of, "My own pace," they let out every so often. Church breathes silently through his nose.

Just one more dose of misfortune, he tells himself, and then he can turn everything around. Just one more, he thinks as he raises the hatchet.

Church steps into the opening. He casts a long shadow down the alley, and he gets the tribute's attention immediately. He sees Simoleon Serif, cringes, and takes a step forward.

Simoleon fumbles. They grab for the crossbow by their bag, aim it at Church. It's unarmed, and Church continues to advance as Simoleon tugs a bolt in place. They fire accidentally, the bolt whizzing past Church's leg. Fabric tears, as does skin, but the pain in his thigh is nothing compared to the pain in his stomach. All he feels is the blood from the chunk in his leg spill over his pants.

"Stop," Simoleon begs, tears in their eyes. "Please."

Church lifts the hatchet higher, just a foot away from the other tribute.

"My—" Simoleon chokes on their words. They sob and hiccup, the inevitability of death dawning on them. "My—"

Church swings down the hatchet. Simoleon tries to move out of the way, avoiding the killing blow, and the blade is buried in their calf. Simoleon screams and sobs harder. They look over their shoulder at Church, horror on their face. Church closes his eyes and yanks the hatchet out of their leg, and they scream even louder at the open air touching their exposed muscle.

" _Please_!" they splutter. Church swings down again. This time he hits their shoulder, burying deep into the skin and exposing bone. Simoleon screeches as loud as even the owl, and they shake uncontrollably when Church pulls out the hatchet again. "S—Stop…"

There's no way this'll be over quickly. Church can't risk being followed or even having Simoleon get a surprise attack in, so he has no choice but to put the teen out of their misery. This will be the first mercy to come from his misfortune, and he'll make sure it'll never be the last.

Two, three more times he strikes Simoleon, the blows landing higher and higher until they're choking on blood on the ground. They're not dead yet, but they're close. The tears are drying up, the flailing and begging halting.

Simoleon's last words to Church are a heartfelt, sorrowful, "I'm so sorry."

He tucks the food back into Simoleon's bag and pulls out a roll of bandages. He uses half of it to clean his wound, the other half to wrap it, and then Church is slinging the bag over his shoulder and leaving the alleyway. A hovership passes him by to collect Simoleon, and Church watches the body be taken away to be returned to their family.

But the hovership doesn't leave. It stays above the alleyway, still in sight of Church, and he pauses to ponder why it hasn't left yet. One minute passes. He tugs at his shirt, his neck heating up. He feels flushed, and he has to wonder if it's the blood loss and hunger. He has to wonder if his vitals are so dire that they expect him to drop dead right here. He wonders if the pilot has any intention of leaving now that they have their next body.

The heat in his neck spreads and intensifies. Down his arms, to his torso, and ever so slowly it begins to burn. Church is panting now, and he drops the bag to the ground as he kneels down. Is this the exhaustion of killing Simoleon? Is he overheating? Church searches for a canteen, praying for even one drop of water. His eyes are watering, and the taste of metal fills his mouth.

It feels like a big pop—like his skin just burst, a blister suddenly unable to handle the pressure it had built up. He can't pinpoint just where the pop comes from, but he sure as hell feels it in his veins. It's like his own body is being put under too much pressure, bursting at the seams. His throat is bone dry, his hands covered in a thick sheen of sweat. Something warm travels down his cheeks, and Church can only stare at his knuckles when he sees blood drip onto them.

The blood leaks from his eyes first. Church tries to remain calm, to think of a rational way out of whatever's afflicting him. The blood starts to drip from his nose. He hyperventilates and tugs at his shirt again. Why is he so hot? What the hell is happening to him?

It comes out of his ears at a snail's pace, and then Church is doubling over and vomiting all over the pavement. One hand props him up while the other clutches at his chest. He can hardly breathe between every episode, and with each heave he throws up twice as much blood. Church can't tell if he's crying, the blood affecting his vision, but he definitely feels like crying. He imagined countless ways of dying in the arena, resigned to any one of them if someone better came along.

He didn't imagine something as slow as this. Something slower than even starvation.

His blood turns to acid in his veins. Church topples over, falling face-first in the puddle of blood he's thrown up. He looks to the sky, to the hovership still waiting just above the alley. Through the haze of death and the horror of burning from the inside out, Church realises what Simoleon had meant when they'd begged for their life—when they'd apologised.

This is their sabotage. Whoever killed Simoleon would die soon after, and Church is the one who triggered that sabotage.

The hovership inches closer. Church closes his eyes and whimpers. He tries so hard to think of Sarah in his final moments, of how excited she'd been to meet him for the first time and how content Church had felt knowing his sister loved him like their mother did. But with every thought of Sarah, comatose and on borrowed time, comes the reminder of Bel. Bel, who waits for Church back at the house and will never known until nightfall that he's died. Bel, who will soon starve herself and be carted away by a hovership.

Church dies with the expression of a man who's lost everything. To those who know his story, he may as well be.

* * *

 **Cyber Tronovsky, 12, C-District 7**

The trembling of the earth wakes him suddenly from his sleep. Cyber looks around in alarm, unaware for a moment of where he is and what's going on; it's not until he feels the scrape along his arm and hears the warping of wood that the night's events come back to him. Cyber jumps to his feet and pounds on the storage room door. He hopes someone hears him, because there's no doubt that this building will collapse on top of them if the tremors continue.

Even through the wall he can hear them—the loud claps like thunder in the distance, followed by the rumbling and the unmistakable warping of steel. Something's collapsing, and it's not collapsing due to wear and tear like most would.

"Cetronia!" he yells. His damaged arm aches with very slam of his fist against the door. He doesn't hear a response from her. He should consider himself lucky he doesn't hear the mines scattered along the floor going off yet, all things considered.

Another clap rings out through the air, and then something lights up in the storage room. Cyber whirls around and backs up against the door as far as he can. The screen projected into the room is the same as the usual eulogy presentation, but those only happen at night. Cyber swallows a lump in his throat as he watches the screen, occasionally glitching from the tremors, displays the symbol of Panem before fading to Lola Amos's cheery face.

" _Hello tributes!_ " she greets with too much enthusiasm. " _If you've been keeping track of the cannonfire, you'll notice that twelve tributes have now been eliminated!_ "

He watches her pull a hard hat out from under her desk, and she set it haphazardly on her head.

" _This means we've arrived at our mid-Games twist. Isn't that exciting? And since this is a Quell that requires one of our own to win for a clean victory, we've decided to make an announcement for all our lovely C-District tributes to see!_ "

"This could kill us all!" Cyber yells at the screen. Naturally, Lola doesn't hear him. It's not a two-way feed, after all.

She reaches under her desk again and pulls yet another item out—a breathing apparatus, identical to the ones in the cornucopia. " _Some of you have received these over the past few days, and I'm here to tell you now that you'll want to put it on and make good use of those filters! Elysium was constructed with heavy amounts of aspestine, and inhaling the dust from it would be very bad for your poor lungs!_ "

Lola puts on the mask and makes a mock heavy breathing sound. " _May the odds be ever in your favour, final twelve_ ," she finishes with a deep, exaggerated tone.

The screen flickers off. Cyber presses himself impossibly closer to the door. Think, he tells himself—what would they be doing that requires the masks? That makes the buildings go down so destructively? Demolition can have that effect, but Cyber hasn't seen any explosives in the building. Not even when he was laying the mines. Not unless… Unless they plan to let the mines go off themselves?

Cyber squeezes his eyes shut and lets out a small whine. There's a very good chance that the blast will rip him apart, if that's the case. Another tremor shakes the town hall, and Cyber well and truly feels fear for the first time since regaining his emotions. He feels the fear of dying young, of having no control over what will kill him. Much like he'd been trapped in a dying body, he's now confined to the small storage room like a personal tomb.

Another tremor. It feels closer than the last, and Cyber snaps his eyes open. Any second now the roof of the town hall will break, and a stray piece will set off the mines one by one.

Another tremor. He watches the ceiling intently. Closer and closer, sooner and sooner.

Another tremor—

A loud bang, succeeded by dozens others, from the other side of the door. Cyber doesn't even feel the heat of the blast, the door thick enough to shield him from that much, but he sure as hell feels everything else that comes afterward. He feels the weight of the wall that he's thrown into. He feels the ceiling topple over him, forcing him to the uneven ground with a grunt. He feels the debris pin him down, a large chunk digging into the exposed frame of his skeleton.

He feels something burst in his damaged arm. He hears the coolant that replaced his blood splatter against the floor as the town hall finally, finally finishes its collapse.

Cyber howls in pain. He howls and cries. He begs for someone, anyone, to find him and get the weight off of his arm. He wants the pain to stop.

He calls for his father.

A voice cries out among the rubble. Cyber yells back, desperate for anyone to help him. They'll find him, he thinks. He'll be free, and this near-death experience will end.

Shadows loom over him, voices he can't quite recognise. Muffled, probably from the masks Lola had just told everyone to put on. They call his name. They kneel down in front of him. They tell him he's sturdy.

Too sturdy.

Cyber isn't sure what they mean, and he almost wishes he could figure out what being too study has to do with anything. Being sturdy is good, right? Because then he's harder to kill, and Cetronia has the best Capitolite on her side to win? The figure stands to their full height, and they raise their arms high.

"Hold his side," they command—is it Cetronia? Is that her voice coming from the mask?

Two pairs of hands land on one side, brushing the lighter debris away and freeing half of him. They don't help him up. They don't try to move the heavier debris on his other side. Instead, one of them chants, "Oh my God," over and over again as they hold his arm and legs down.

Hands rise high above Cetronia's head. Something flashes in the light, a very clear indicator of metal. Cyber watches it in confusion, then realisation hits him. The axe is held in place for a few seconds more. Cetronia lines up the spot on his trapped arm.

"No—"

She swings down.

* * *

 **Gossamer Wormwood, 17, C-District 10**

They all stare at the destruction with dropped jaws. They'd all heard the announcement and seen the first explosion, originating all the way near Lyme Street, but none of them can process it. Even Gossamer is lost for words as he watches the explosions balloon out into the air every few seconds. Closer and closer, swallowing even the unsuspecting owl in its wake. It reaches the town hall, where the careers have taken refuge, and the sight of the building collapsing in on itself is enough to force Gossamer to move.

"Masks!" he yells at Ham and Octavia. The taller snaps into action at the mere mention of the masks, and she dives for their bag and throws them to Ham and Gossamer. Ham helps Gossamer put on his mask while Octavia secures hers, and then the trio are running out of the lobby and into the exposed street.

"Where are there no buildings?" Ham yells through her mask. Octavia fumbles for the map, but Gossamer stops her before she can waste any more time. The houses to their right explode, and Gossamer has to dive to the ground to avoid being crushed by a large chunk of cement.

"Lake!" he screams. "The lake!"

Neither helps him to his feet—he's not surprised, but still disappointed—and Gossamer rolls around angrily as he watches the girls sprint for the lake in the centre of Elysium. More buildings are blown apart, and Gossamer is propelled forward by the force of the government building's own explosion once he gets to his feet. He stumbles after them, running as best he can with his arms held in place.

The government building sends a wave of dust after them as it collapses, and Gossamer is actually thankful that the lumberjane remembered to put his mask on too.

The explosions spread like an epidemic. From the government building, they move to the mall; from the mall, over to the residential area at the corner of Atticus and Thisbe-Wrenn Street. Around it goes, every house a domino, until finally nothing is left standing.

Gossamer stumbles to a stop just behind Octavia and Ham, still a good distance from the lake. There's so much dust and dirt in the air that almost nothing is visible but their outlines, and until it clears all they can do is wait. But the dust lingers, a fog to keep them lost and wandering, and Gossamer isn't sure how long he can sit around defenseless like this.

He looks over at Ham, who's injured and will more than likely fall if she's kicked. She's armed, sure, but she can't chase him with her wound. He looks at Octavia. She has the bag, all of his things, and she has a knife that she can use. But she's more likely to help Ham than chase Gossamer if he flees, especially since she's got all he had to offer. A map? She has it. A plan to take down Cetronia? If she can cooperate with other tributes, she has that too.

Gossamer moves closer to Ham. He readies his stance, able to see the outline of her torso through the dust.

"Ham," he calls out. The smaller girl turns around, ready to snap at him, and Gossamer lifts his leg to kick out.

His foot lands right on her wound, and she topples over with a pained screech while Octavia scrambles to catch her. Gossamer uses this split-second window to run, and run he does.

For a moment he panics and thinks Octavia has followed him, that Ham's convinced her to chase him. But he only hears his own thundering footfalls, and he slows to a jog as the dust reveals yet another form in the distance.

There's coughing, frequent and deep, and even as Gossamer approaches it doesn't stop. It's just one person, if the outline is anything to go by, and they're too busy hacking up a lung to notice him. He might have a chance to get some supplies, especially if this shmuck is dying because of a lack of mask.

Gossamer slows to a stop. He wiggles his fingers and takes in a deep breath. He didn't want to resort to this, but without a knife or even a fire to burn off the ropes, he's got little choice. At least it'll be an easy fix, especially once this is all over and done with.

He makes it a point to clear his head when he positions his thumb in the proper place. He doesn't like thinking about how his bones are moving when he dislocates his thumb, and he sure as hell isn't going to start now. All he knows is that one moment he's standing with his arms strapped together behind his back, and the next the rope is being shimmied off of one wrist while his thumb screams out in pain.

Gossamer doesn't even look at it as he pops it back in place. He just shoves the hand in his pocket and moves again, adamant to snatch up any bags laying around by this person.

He scurries over, ready to start snatching anything laying around, and for all of a minute he thinks only of how far he's going to survive, how quickly everyone else will perish once he's supplied again. But then he sees the person's head, the blond hair that only one person alive outside of the careers would have.

Gossamer drops to his knees and finds the bag hidden behind her, and he's livid when he sees the mask in it. Chambray struggles weakly as Gossamer forces it on her face and straps it on, and she doesn't even hear him when he yells, "The whole _point_ of these fucking things was to breathe through the _filters_!"

Chambray coughs into the mask, and blood splatters against the plastic over her mouth. Gossamer shrieks.

Staying where Octavia and Ham are headed is not a good idea. Gossamer doesn't want to just leave Chambray here, either—she's one of the few he knows so little about outside of interviews, and the fact that this weak girl scored a twelve at the same time as strong, stubborn Octavia says something. If anyone is the prime ally for him right now, it's Chambray.

She stops struggling when she sees him grab both her arm and her bag. In fact, she goes almost limp from the confusion and continues to cough, wrapping her blanket tighter around her. Gossamer speed walks, the bag slung over his shoulder, and he keeps a tight grip on Chambray's wrist with his good hand.

The only place that wouldn't have been hit with explosions is the park, and while he isn't entirely certain of where he's going, he knows the general direction. If Chambray hasn't suffered too much from aspestine poisoning, maybe they can last through the next few days. There's less places to hide, twelve tributes gone, and everyone else will be desperate to get out once they realise the masks only work for so long with each filter.

Chambray coughs louder. Gossamer grits his teeth and looks over his shoulder at her.

"You need a Capitolite to win," he yells, "and you're about the only asshole worth allying with here. If you even take off that mask once, don't expect happy times and rainbows. You understand?"

She nods weakly. It's as good a confirmation as he'll get, especially with the blood covering half of her mask. He'll have to figure out how to resolve that problem later, he decides.

* * *

 **Alright, we're down to half the tributes! And since we're at this point, I'll make the QQ something to do with placements!**

 **QQ #34:** Who do you think won't make it to the final 8? Why?

 **See you in the next chapter!**


	41. Night 4

**Night 4 is here! Bit of a shorter chapter, but hopefully it updates you on where everyone is and how they're doing!**

* * *

 **40 - Night 4**

 **Magnus Tweed, Arena Designer**

When Malvolia had told him he could take it easy despite this year landing on a Quell, she wasn't kidding. The most he's had to do this time around is erect a wall around Elysium, stopping tributes from swimming into the open sea, and plant bombs for the island city's eventual demolition. For the first time since starting this job, designing every unique arena to stand out on its own, he's had nothing to do. Even the mutt designers, who'd believed up until Florence had lodged her sabotage that they'd be unneeded, have more work to do than Magnus.

He drums his fingers against the monitor he's situated himself in front of. As much as Malvolia probably intended to give him a well-earned break, Magnus _wants_ to do his job. He loves coming up with outlandish or simplified, yet still effective, designs. Being productive keeps him busy, and if he's busy he doesn't worry about things. Things like lectures he's been invited to do at the university. Things like if his dog is lonely and needs a companion. Things like how Adele is doing—

Magnus kicks his desk, sending his chair wheeling to the opposite side of the room. The monitors detailing the remaining twelve tributes' heart rates and health are flickering away, with Malvolia hovering over the shoulder of one gamemaker in particular. Magnus looks at the screen above them, showing a collapsed house with dust slowly clearing around it. If he looks carefully enough, he can see a thin, brown arm poking out from the rubble and weakly twitching away.

The drone capturing the footage zooms in. From a small gap where the last rays of light peek through, they can see the curls of Oryza Belfast tangled in the mess of wood and brick. The monitor with her name on it beeps away, heart rate slowly dying as all other vital signs flicker off. Her hand twitches more and more, the nerves in her shoulder probably being pinched by the angle she'd been crushed under. It continues to twitch even as she flatlines.

Malvolia doesn't order the cannonfire yet. Bel's brain is still active, a small spark that may prove she's still worth saving.

As she waits, she says without looking to Magnus, "Any catch your interest?"

Immediately he looks to the screen where Gossamer Wormwood is busy pulling Calico Hemingway through the park, searching for the perfect spot to hide while they gather their bearings. It's an unexpected pairing, he thinks, but the pairing itself isn't what has him curious.

"Why'd Calico cough up blood so soon?"

"Hm?" Malvolia looks to him now, her attention still half on Oryza's vitals.

"Aspestine is poisonous, but even inhaling it for a few days prior to the explosions wouldn't damage his lungs that far."

"Oh. That." She looks down at Calico's vitals, where his breathing is notably stunted. It never was in a healthy zone to begin with, though. "The factory he works at has a history of children sustaining lung damage from the fumes. He was never going to survive beyond the final twelve, ideally."

Magnus hums. Both he and Malvolia turn their attentions back to Bel's vitals, where brain activity slowly fizzles out. The hand on the screen no longer twitches.

"Fire," Malvolia orders. The sound of a cannon rings out through the speaker, and then they move on to the next screen.

The next monitor is that of Finnegan Styx, whose vitals seem to be otherwise fine. His blood pressure is up and his heart is hammering away, but Magnus assumes that's normal for someone stuck in a fridge that's stuck under a house. He wouldn't know personally. Despite one corner of the fridge being visible, they don't have much of a sight to see with Finn. The drone above the mansion circles a few times, probably looking for a better angle, but it's practically hopeless.

In the corner of the screen is movement, another tribute running in the mansion's direction. Magnus watches as the gamemaker drags another tribute's vitals next to Finn's, and he isn't all that surprised to see it's Luxor Aricunai. He was only a block away from his ally when Simoleon's sabotage kicked in, and he probably would've arrived sooner if he had a proper mask instead of what appears to be one of his pants legs wrapped around his mouth and nose. He's certainly not stopping himself from inhaling the aspestine, but at least he's reducing the amount he's inhaling through the material.

The drone focuses on Luxor as he climbs the rubble, visibly trying to retrace the steps he would take to get to the kitchen in the mansion. He points in one area, panics, and adjusts his gaze to the left. He's uncertain as he explores further, and every so often he stops to move larger chunks of the mansion.

"Lola says the viewers are rather attached to Luxor," Malvolia reports. The gamemaker in front of her hums in agreement.

"There's been a number of complaints that his sponsorships never reached him," they say. "Not that it stopped them finding other ways of helping him."

"If there were such thing as a people's choice, he and Finn would win." Magnus swivels around in his chair lazily. "How big will the riot be if he doesn't?"

The gamemaker snorts. "His fans are a force to be reckoned with. Think Dark Days levels of riots."

"He's found the fridge," Malvolia tells them. Magnus focuses on the screen again, where Luxor now moves as quickly as possible to unearth the fridge Finn's inside of. Smart of him to tell him about it, Magnus thinks. Most kids forget that the fridges are sturdy and big enough to keep someone safe during a disaster.

The majority of rubble is shoved aside, and Luxor knocks on the fridge to check if Finn is inside. Finn's brain activity lights up, and the Capitol boy only works faster to get the rest of the debris off. Soon enough the fridge is free, and Finn wastes no time bursting out with a sheet stuffed with their new supplies in his arms. Luxor sets to work trying to make another mask for Finn. Attention moves on to someone else.

All eyes go to the anomaly of the Games, Cyber Tronovsky. There had actually been a pool running on how he'd fare, being more machine than human by this point. Magnus had been on the side betting that Cyber would be targeted en masse. He wasn't necessarily convinced it would mean the boy would die. Most of the Gamemakers betting on his mechanical body being his downfall are on the edges of their seats now, though, and they watch with one eye at all times as small spurts of coolant leak from his stumped arm.

Magnus isn't a robotics person, but he knows enough to realise losing too much coolant will eventually cause Cyber to overheat and and force his body to shut down. There's already signs of it happening now, an uncharacteristic fatigue settling over him and a notable strain on his lungs and heart. Magnus stares at the screen the careers at the focus of, where Valentina bandages up Cyber's arm as best she can now that the large leak has been clogged with spare clothing. Through her mask are tear stains on her cheeks, and from the looks of things she's the most shaken up about the turn of events.

He looks at Morganite, who carefully gathers their things and sets them inside the sturdy cornucopia. It's what shielded the four within, and Cetronia hadn't taken long to shove the debris blocking the front out of the way. So far Morganite is the only one actually taking stock, separating things into bags and counting the food they can divide between them. Nikostratos is the only one by Cetronia, and he's gesturing as he talks. He motions to Cyber, then to the coolant on the ground around them. Croix goes on to gesture to the now demolished arena.

He's obviously convincing Cetronia to end the Games as soon as she can, for all their sakes. The filters will only last so long. There isn't an infinite amount to use among them.

"She won't last the night," another Gamemaker notes, and Magnus flicks his gaze to the tribute in question. One Phyllis Hamilton clutches her side with intense pain written all over her face. Her injury is bleeding through her clothes again, and the force of Gossamer's kick must've opened it further than what the morningstar had originally accomplished. No doubt she's been exposed to the aspestine through the injury—who falls first between her and Calico is anyone's guess at this point.

At least her ally is taking care of her instead of chasing after Gossamer. Octavia helps Ham stay on her feet as they make their ways back to the rubble of the government building. They'd been smart to use the honey the first time, but it's been their only source of food up till now. There won't be enough to bandage up Ham again _and_ satisfy their hungers. A tough call might have to be made, Magnus thinks.

"Any other tributes in the red?" Malvolia asks. A few Gamemakers mumble, but the result is unanimous: Only one perished from the mid-Games twist, the remainder either toeing the line between life and death or free to fight another day.

"Alright," Malvolia says, "play the eulogies."

The screen that focused on Bel now changes to that of Panem's flag, the national anthem playing over the scene. He notices a few weary heads peek up at the sky, seeing who's left in the chaos that had unfolded before their eyes.

First appears Simoleon Serif, whose sabotage was one of the ideas that Magnus could respect. Simoleon knew their weaknesses and their reservations, and to make up for it they made their own death a curse upon whoever killed them. Had Magnus been in their shoes, he would've done the same.

After Simoleon is Oryza Belfast, the small, deaf girl from Nine who'd made it to twelfth place. Rye wasn't the best mentor, and her lack of hearing definitely had her at a disadvantage—but to make it this far is still a feat in itself. According to the Gamemakers who'd scored her, her climbing skills were pretty decent. Magnus wonders if she'd have made it further in a mountain arena.

Finally, Epsilon Church appears. Simoleon's killer, Oryza's caretaker. Magnus's hand twitches, almost ready to reach for his heart. Watching Church die had been… intense. None of them knew what a death by overloading a tracker chip could do—none of them had needed to terminate a tribute in such a way, after all—but it's definitely among the deaths that'll keep them up at night until the next Games.

The anthem fades out, and the flag of Panem fizzles out of sight. Silence reigns over the arena once more.

Magnus gets off his chair and wheels it back to his station. He can hear Malvolia discussing where the tributes are, though other Gamemakers are placing bets on the top eight.

"Was kinda hoping to see Four on TV again," one Gamemaker murmurs to another beside them. She nods along in agreement.

"I don't mind all the trees and foliage in Seven, though."

"At least the eyesores of the Districts are out of the running," a muttation designer jokes. A few others voice their agreement, talking about how dreary Twelve and Five can look at times. Magnus isn't so sure about Five, but he does tend to avoid broadcasts featuring Twelve.

Malvolia claps her hands twice, silencing everyone. All eyes move to her form, where she stands in front of the virtual map displayed over her own station. Eleven little lights are still on, slowly moving across the rubble.

"We're at the halfway mark, everyone," she announces. "From here on we pay _extra_ attention to the tributes and what they do. If you don't know who they're with, what they plan, who they hunt, when they even _sleep_ , you're going to fall behind. The owl is compromised, which means we have to rely on them stumbling across each other more than ever to make sure the viewers get a show."

She looks to one station—the sponsorship request and deployment, consisting of a mere three people. "Eunice, I'm relying on you to make sure the packages are more visible than before. If more than one group can see it descend, we'll manage to bring them closer."

Eunice nods and says, "Yes, ma'am."

"Everyone else: Game faces."

* * *

 **A bit on the shorter side, but I wanted to do a post-twist POV from the Gamemakers and while also showing how everyone else is doing in the aftermath! But at least now we know what happened to everyone :D**

 **QQ #35:** Bit of a simple one, what are your thoughts on Magnus? You can base this on just Ad Mortem or, if you read Ad Aeturnum, what you knew of him there as well.

 **I couldn't really think of a big question since the last chapter I literally asked who you'd think would die leading up to the final 8. So how about some opinions on Magnus Tweed!**

 **Eulogies:**

 **14th Place: Simoleon Serif, C-District 4, 17 - Sent by Kate-The-Great-And-Powerful  
Hacked to death by Epsilon Church  
**Sim! Writing scenes with them always made me so emotional, they were always doing their best even if no one else saw it that way! Like I said in Adrianne's eulogy, Sim's dynamic with her and their interactions was one of the most blessed things in Mortem, I feel so bad for taking them both out so gruesomely D: Despite all of Sim's struggles, though, they made it to 14th and did their best until the very end! Thank you for sending Sim in, Kate, and I hope you enjoyed their portrayal! I enjoyed writing them :)

 **13th Place: Epsilon Church, C-District 9, 17 - Sent by david12341  
Killed by Simoleon Serif's sabotage  
**Ooof, Church went out pretty painfully. But prior to his death, he was absolutely interesting to write and show interacting with others! I think my favourite scene with Church's POVs has to be during training, where we see him interact with Bel and treat her like a sister rather than an ally. Like Adrianne and Sim, Bel and Church's dynamic was one of the ones I enjoyed writing as well! He was stoic and intimidating but he still had a soft side and a reason for his steadfast actions. David, thank you for sending him to Mortem and giving Bel someone to bond with during their time together!

 **12th Place: Oryza Belfast, District 9, 15 - Sent by Wetstar  
Crushed under rubble of a house  
**Ahhhhhh, it's like a lot of you said - she wouldn't have heard the explosions like everyone else did. Bel was an absolute sweetie and despite the rough treatment she got from people back in her District she was still an amazing girl who was nice to everyone. While I wasn't as familiar with ASL and used Auslan for Bel's signing, it was still a fun opportunity to refresh my memory on signs I knew as a kid and learn some new ones along the way. Thanks for sending Bel, Jess :D I hope I did her justice!

 **Till next time!**


	42. Day 5 (I)

**41 - Day 5 (I)**

 **Morganite Gardierre, 14, C-District 6**

The dust is starting to clear, only a thin sheet obscuring their visions for the moment. The chaos of yesterday is calming, the frantic need to survive dying down to a simple effort to keep the filters clean.

Morganite sits with Cyber as he struggles to breathe, his synthetic skin heating up more than normal. Despite clogging his arm with as much fabric as possible, coolant still leaks from it by the cupful every hour. Cyber himself had said that the coolant couldn't be replaced like blood, needing to be poured in through a tube unlike its organic counterpart. Every so often his glowing eyes dim, and she thinks, _This is it, this is his time_.

But Cyber comes back to his senses a moment later, every time, and he lets out a shuddering breath that can only be his attempts at suppressing his sobs. He's dying, and he knows it, but he doesn't want to die.

Morganite holds his hand as the time passes. She's got a backpack on her lap, filled with enough supplies to do one surveillance check of the area. Despite how quickly the dust is fading from the air, sinking to the ground like dirty snow, it's not going to fall fast enough for them to take off their masks safely. She's gone through countless boxes that survived the demolition and the mines under the floorboards, and between them all they'll barely survive two more days relying on just the filters.

This needs to end sooner, she thinks. But Croix is delaying Cetronia, convincing her to let the others without filters die on their own.

Cyber grips her hand a little tighter, and she looks down at him with a hum. His eyes are dimming again, but not as much as usual.

"Can you," he wheezes, only to pause and take in laboured breaths. "Can you put me… out under the sky?"

"The sky?"

He nods. "Getting… system alerts… Everything but my brain is going to shut down soon…" Cyber sucks in another deep breath. One of his eyes goes out completely, proving his point. "'S to keep my… organs from boiling…"

Morganite glances further into the cornucopia, where Cetronia sleeps atop her blanket pile. Croix and Valentina sit closer to her than to Cyber and Morganite, occupied by their own problems. She looks back at him and chews her lip.

"Can—" She almost can't say it. "Can you be brought back if your brain still works?"

He nods once, but doesn't sound hopeful. "Within… half an hour…"

That's hardly enough time for Croix's plan to wait everyone else out. If they don't end this soon, Cyber will die—all because they'd locked him in that stupid storage room and had to hack off his arm to get him out. Morganite sniffs and tosses the bag to the ground. She grabs Cyber's hand with both of hers and nods.

He may not be like them, not wholly organic anymore, but he's still a kid. He got a second chance at life from his father, who loved him so much that he made _new technology_ just to save him, and now it's being thrown away because of this shitshow of a Hunger Games.

"Okay," she says, forcing herself to keep her voice even. "I'll put you under the sky, buddy."

Cyber smiles at her, but half of it falls flat. Even his face isn't working properly. Her heart just breaks even more at the sight.

Dragging him out isn't easy. He's still heavy, and neither Val nor Croix make moves to help. Valentina has been unnerved by Cyber more than ever now that his arm is gone, and he doesn't even bleed like they do. Croix just doesn't care, probably delighted that he doesn't have to share his eventual victory with a child. Morganite just grunts and heaves, dragging the boy by his shirt and mumbling apologies every time she has to stop. She pulls him out a good few metres away from the cornucopia, shrugs off her vest and uses a knife to cut off his own, and then she folds them into a neat pile.

She sits it under his head, and Cyber smiles at her with one dim eye.

"My caretaker," he tells her, pausing to keep himself looking at the sky, "she wanted me to look into stuff like this. Wanted to go see the tree from… Barley's Games?"

Morganite chews her lip so hard that she can feel the skin break. His caretaker had probably wanted to take him to see it after the reapings.

"Never did say thank you to her," he goes on. He takes on a somber tone, almost regretting the missed opportunity. "Never thought to."

She inhales deeply and says, "I'm sure she's watching right now. Maybe she knew all along."

He hums. "I hope so," he says. "She's all I have now."

Morganite can't take much more of this. She rises to her feet, Cyber now in place under the sun, and she takes a few steps back to the cornucopia.

Distantly, she hears him call after her, "Thank you for treating me like a person."

She's violent when she snatches her bag from the cornucopia and packs an extra knife. _Now_ Val and Croix pay attention to her. _Now_ they care what she's doing. Croix looks like he's about to smugly ask what Morganite plans to do, and Morganite just sneers at him.

"I need to patrol," she growls at him. "Or else."

He places a hand to his chest and raises his brows. At the very least, Valentina tells her to be careful. Morganite barely even waves to them as she leaves the cornucopia, and she can't bring herself to say goodbye to Cyber for good. She just strides past him, fists clenched tightly by her sides, and does everything in her power to just delay the breakdown.

This needs to end now. Screw the waiting game and screw letting everyone else pick each other off. She wants to go home and she wants to _end_ this nightmare once and for all. She doesn't want to be like Barb, she doesn't want to be like Vera—she wants to be Morganite, despite everything going on.

Morganite, who'd sneak out at night to go to parties. Morganite, who'd be scolded by one parent and supported by the other. Her vision blurs. _Morganite_ , who never wanted any part of this outside of escorting. No more shields, she thinks as she storms out of the careers' views. No more using people. It's not what _Morganite_ wants to do.

She steers herself towards the government building. If she wants this to end, she needs to form a new alliance. She needs to revive Knight's plan to take down Cetronia, and she needs numbers. As far as she knows Octavia is still alive, and there's no doubt that she still holds a dislike for Cetronia. Of the other remaining tributes, her best bets would be Luxor and Gossamer—Gossamer's a Peacekeeper child, and Luxor has proven he has a decent enough aim with a bow.

The original plan had been five—herself, Val, Wystan, Florence and Knight. Maybe she can get away with four, she thinks. Maybe they can manage it now that they're more prepared for the carnage to come.

She walks and walks, the rubble of the government building becoming more pronounced. She can hear movement, a few whispers and pained grunts. Morganite sniffs and relaxes her hands. She may only have one chance at this.

As soon as she can see their outlines, she calls to the duo, "I'm coming over!"

The fact that Octavia doesn't immediately threaten Morganite's life is as good a sign as any that she's on the right track.

* * *

 **Calico Hemingway, 17, District 8**

Ever since the empty canteen had landed, Calico's felt on edge. He hadn't had the strength to hide the note from Gossamer, to pretend like nothing was there along with the sponsorship gift. But when Gossamer had tried to have a drink, shaking the water as though testing its amount, the rattle of paper inside was unmistakable.

Darios Aricunai is determined to make Calico feel as terrible as possible. _You should've drank the water_ , the note admonishes him, and underneath is a signature that even Gossamer recognises. With the knowledge that even the Gamemakers want him dead, Gossamer is much more disgruntled over Calico not using his mask sooner.

"Unbelievable," Gossamer grumbles. Calico watches dimly as the blond scrubs at his mask, desperate to clean the blood from view. He keeps his vest over his nose and mouth and can't bring himself to move from his spot on the grass. "You really wanted to prove me wrong when I called you a threat, huh?"

He doesn't respond. Calico coughs weakly against the material, feeling no blood pooling around his lips. At least his fit from the night before has subsided.

After the angry explanation Gossamer had given him during the night, Calico feels like even more of a fool—and perhaps even a little guilty. He'd thought the masks were for show, to scare the tributes or perhaps be used for something much more unorthodox. Calico didn't even know what aspestine was until now, and everything happening to his lungs makes so much more sense now. They're weak, certainly, but regular dust in the air wouldn't cause them to start failing at a snail's pace. But this aspestine Gossamer described? It definitely makes sense now.

Calico's lungs are dying, and he has no earthly clue how long he has left, even with the masks and filters. More so, he's left Luxor and Finn for dead as well—stealing the masks they had, thinking them useless and thus unnecessary to leave like the bow and arrows, and leaving them exposed to the thin sheen of dust now littering the air.

"Ugh."

Gossamer chucks the bloodied rag over his shoulder and inspects the plastic. Most of the blood is gone, though there is an outline of where it had splattered.

"Put this back on," he tells Calico, and Calico weakly complies. There isn't much point in arguing, not when Gossamer is so intent on preserving his life. Gossamer's convinced that Chambray is worth helping—and he's not wrong, technically—but Calico knows it's only a matter of time before the Gamemakers pick him off.

Maybe he'll get lucky and someone will kill Gossamer, then Calico. Or maybe Calico and then Gossamer. He's not fussed about the order, really.

Gossamer leans against the tree they'd stopped at, right at the centre of the park. It's a big maple tree, the leaves reddening and close to falling off. He lets out a heavy sigh and turns his gaze to Calico, and there's annoyance in those eyes.

"Honestly, do you have a death wish?" he grumbles. Calico glares back up at him. The past day has exhausted him too much to even argue back with him verbally. "And whatever happened with your little alliance with Bitchxor?"

"His name is—"

"I know what his name is."

Calico purses his lips and squeezes his eyes shut. It's his turn to sigh, and it's just as heavy as Gossamer's. "I didn't… He just…"

Gossamer leans closer.

Finally, unable to vocalise it the way he knows is understandable, Calico says, "He knew I didn't like being touched."

He can see Gossamer's brows rise. "He practically carried you out of the party," he points out.

Calico nods. "We danced, too. I was too… too…"

"Furious?" Gossamer supplies. "Enraged? Hysterical?"

"Sure… One of those. I didn't notice and by the time I did, it was already over." He slides a hand under his head. Neither of them have taken the blanket to use, and Calico's neck is starting to ache from laying flat on the ground. "I didn't mind that time, though. It was nice, having someone to support me like…"

Like Cham.

God, he misses Cham so much.

Calico curls in on himself and suppresses a whimper as best he can. He should've volunteered. If he wins this, then it's all the more ironic that he just _didn't volunteer_. Going into the Games as Calico Hemingway wouldn't have impacted his chances. At least then Cham would be safer than she is now, and they'd see each other again when he went home. But instead he froze up and let the situation snowball, pushing it downhill with his own two hands.

"That's a shame," Gossamer tells him. Calico doesn't uncurl himself. He's not even sure why Gossamer is still carrying on with the topic. "Did anyone on your team respect that?"

Well, the stylists _had_ to touch him and poke and prod, and Grieve just didn't care to associate with anyone other than Luxor. If anyone on his team knew and actively avoided crossing that boundary…

"Charlotte," he blurts out. "She doesn't like touching either. She doesn't like a lot of stuff I don't like."

Gossamer crosses his arms and says so uncharacteristically soft, "I see."

"What do you mean, you see?" Calico forces himself up, but his arms tremble under his weight once he can face Gossamer proper. "Are you psychoanalysing me?"

"Psychoanalysis deals with repressed emotions and experiences," Gossamer says matter-of-factly. "I'm just taking notes."

"Why?" Calico forces himself up into a sitting position. Gossamer moves over, giving him space the lean on the tree. The courtesy and its peculiarity don't go unnoticed. "Thought you only had your own self-interest in mind or whatever."

Gossamer shrugs. He opens the bag between them and starts digging through its contents. "I'm capable of respecting people. They just have to be worth respecting to _me_."

So Gossamer respects Chambray. He respects the idea of a threat posing as an emotionally fragile, isolated girl from Eight. He respects what, when it all comes down to the basics, Calico essentially is.

He lets himself smile a little. He's been called a lot of things—not a single one pleasant unless it comes from family—but he's never been deemed respectable. Granted, this respect comes from a bastard who's upended this entire Quell since day one, but it still touches his heart. Maybe this is what he's wanted to hear from people rather than _interesting_ and _unique_. Rather than _creepy_ and _stunted_.

He's respectable.

"Thank you," he mumbles.

Gossamer hums noncommittally. He turns his attention back to the back and pulls out the hatchet, no longer paying attention to Calico. Calico watches him, lips parting in an attempt to ask a question, but he doesn't get the chance. Gossamer rises to his feet and holds the hatchet in a battle stance, taking guard in front of Calico.

Through the thin layer of dust obscuring their vision, Calico can still see what's got Gossamer on guard all of a sudden. Three figures approach them, all of varying heights, and Calico tenses with each passing second. He doesn't know how well Gossamer can fight, but even three-on-one would be too much for him to handle.

Soon the figure leading them is more identifiable—it's hard for Calico to mistake the pink hair bouncing around her shoulders. Morganite, he thinks her name is. He hasn't seen her face in the sky yet, so it has to be her.

They get closer, until finally Morganite brings the other two to a stop just a few feet away from Gossamer and Calico. He can see the other two now—Ham, doubled over in pain and sweating visibly through her mask, and Octavia, glaring daggers into Gossamer as she grips her lamb cleaver so hard her knuckles turn white.

"Hear us out for a second," Morganite starts. Calico glances at Gossamer, unsure if he'll listen. "These two said you gave them a plan to take down Cetronia."

"And?" Gossamer says slowly.

"And I want to gather the numbers we need for it."

Morganite holds out a hand. Gossamer, ever so slowly, lowers the hatchet to the ground.

* * *

 **Finnegan Styx, 17, District 6**

 _Boom!_

They both stare up at the sky in alarm. Seconds pass, silent and agonising. Then it happens again.

 _Boom!_

"Are those…" Finn limps over to Luxor's side, half of their supplies wrapped in a sheet they'd salvaged between them. "Was that a cannon?"

"Two," Luxor confirms. Finn can see the concern in his eyes. He knows how badly Luxor wants to find Calico, to make sure their ally is safe, but with how few of them are left it's too dangerous to even leave the other behind. "Maybe we can wait out the rest of the deaths."

It's not a bad idea. Finn nods, making sure the fabric around his mouth and nose is secure enough for him to move around. They both take one end of the sheet and begin shimmying it out from the rubble, back onto solid ground so they can get a better hold on it. Luxor's movements are deliberately slow for Finn's sake, and he appreciates it to no end as he tries to navigate the chunks of concrete, brick and plaster around them.

 _Boom!_

They stop again. Three now…

"Maybe we can hide somewhere near the park," Luxor says. He's tense, the extra cannonfire putting him into panic-mode. Any one of them could be Calico, Finn thinks. "No one else went that way, right?"

"I think so," Finn agrees.

"Think you can make the trip?"

He nods. He has to make the trip if they want to simply outlive the other fighting tributes. The way they are now, they won't be able to defend themselves.

As much as he wants to be brave, the quick succession of cannonfires has him just as concerned as Luxor. For all they know, it could be Cetronia's doing. She was a force to be reckoned with in the bloodbath, for sure, and it's hard to ignore how powerful she is compared to the other tributes. She could win this singlehandedly once she chooses a Capitolite to bring back with her.

How long will it take for her attention to turn to Finn and Luxor, who have even less experience than the careers who'd tried to take her out?

Finn looks up at Luxor nervously. He's wondering the same thing, if the concern drowning the sapphire hue of his eyes is anything to go by. The sooner they make it to the park, the better.

There could be a bright side to this, though. Finn wants to hope that one of the cannons was Cetronia's, the other two an unfortunate casualty in taking her down. Maybe another plan was concocted, maybe someone else took care of her. If they're lucky, maybe this will leave Finn the last District tribute and they can all go home safely. No more killing, no more breathing in this horrible air—they can just _go home_.

"How many of us left?" he asks Luxor. He's lost count already, but he knows Luxor has been paying extra attention due to nerves.

"I think… Eight?" Luxor drops his corner of the sheet in shock. Finn does the same. They both share incredulous looks as they realise what this means. "We're in the final eight."

"We're in the final eight," Finn echoes, disbelief littering his tone. When his leg had been broken during training and his mind had been fuzzy due to morphling, he couldn't imagine making it beyond even the bloodbath. But the final eight…

 _Boom!_

Both of them jump. That's definitely another cannon.

"Seven?" Luxor whispers. He sounds so uncertain. "I don't— The Games never loses one of its final eight before interviews."

Finn limps over to his side. They're barely out of the gates of the ruined suburbia. "Maybe we should stay put? It could be more mutts doing this," he says. Luxor nods, wary.

"After everything with the owl, I wouldn't be surprised. Maybe we can sit further in the rubble and hide inside it."

 _Boom!_

Neither boy makes a move to pick up the sheet. They just stare at each other, horror slowly dawning in their eyes.

Luxor stammers, "S—Six…"

Five cannonfires within the course of twenty minutes. It _has_ to be mutts, Finn thinks. There's no possible way that this was all from one person plowing through tributes. He'll believe almost anything happening at this point, but not that. That's just too… too impossible!

Right now the two of them make of one third of the remaining tributes. Finn's hands start to shake. Is he scared? Excited? He honestly can't tell. All he knows is that everything from this point onwards could mean life or death.

He looks at the sheet and squeaks, attempting to say something and failing. Luxor reaches down for his corner and waits for Finn to do the same. As they shimmy the sheet back in the middle of the suburbia, where the rubble can conceal them, he finally brings himself to force the words out of his mouth.

"I need to defend myself," he says. Luxor doesn't say anything. "We only have so many arrows, a—and it's not fair on you if you're the only one fighting."

The model nods. Finn anxiously waits for him to say something more, but Luxor is just silent. Solemn.

Neither is ready for whatever hell awaits them in the final six.

* * *

 **:3c**

 **I don't really have much of a QQ for today's chapter so let's make it a bit off-topic!**

 **QQ #36:** If you could live anywhere in Panem, where would it be?

 **I'll see you next chapter for Day 5 part 2!**


	43. Day 5 (II)

**And now we see who the cannons were! Enjoy!**

* * *

 **42 - Day 5 (II)**

 **Celestia Snow, President of Panem**

"Things have been moving rather quickly."

Celestia nods once at Horace's statement. "Given that the tributes with a will to fight have been replaced with… _clumsier_ children, it's not all that a surprise."

That earns her a heavy sigh from Horace. It's to be expected, she thinks—the man always finds something to critique her over whenever they have a conversation.

"And is there _anything_ you're taking away from this?" he asks her. Celestia hums, genuinely considering his question, but ultimately shakes her head. Horace sighs again. He stops walking and reaches up to squeeze the bridge of his nose.

"What's there to take away from a Hunger Games?" she retorts. It's childish, but everyone has their own childish pleasures in the world. Her's just happens to be the national sport. "It's just District kids."

He runs his hand down his face, and she can hear his scruff from the distance they stand. For a five o'clock shadow, it sure makes as much noise as a full beard. "I'm not—"

"Then what _are_ you here to lecture me about, Mr. Becskei?" Celestia beckons him to follow, resuming their journey to the Gamemaker HQ. It's almost time for the final eight, and she wants to see who makes the cut before Lola hunts down family members for interviews.

Horace follows her, his long strides keeping up with her easily. He shoves his hands in his trouser pockets and looks down at her through the corner of his eye. "Has it ever occurred to you that using the same system for a hundred years will start to…" He pauses, searching for the right word. "Become _faulty_?"

Celestia squawks out a laugh. He doesn't laugh with her.

"Oh my God, you're serious," she wheezes. She spots the door to Gamemaker HQ and veers towards it, getting ready to open it and greet Malvolia with this lovely joke of an idea she's been told. "Do go on, Mr. Becskei. How would you fix its faults?"

As she reaches for the doorknob, he says, "A great many children who survive the reapings go on to become adults who resent the Capitol. They're being punished for something they had no part in, and neither did their parents. At least three generations have passed since the Dark Days, Celestia—any rebellion in those families has either died out or fled for Thirteen."

She pauses, looking over her shoulder with a quirked brow.

"I'm saying," Horace goes on, "that perhaps we should turn the Hunger Games back into its original concept—a way of punishment for those unloyal, while those we know are patriots can grow to preach the mercy of the Capitol. Look at the Hemingways, for example—"

"Oh, here we go." Celestia rolls her eyes. She goes to open the door, but Horace plants a hand against it and stops her.

"Celestia, if there'd been extra time to volunteer, we wouldn't be facing this absolute mess of a scenario right now. You had no problems implementing Lola's ideas—"

"Lola wanted to prevent pre-Games suicides—"

"—And I'm trying to prevent rebellion. In the best case scenario, both of the Hemingways are lost to their parents and the seed of rebellion is _planted_. Eight is still rampant with crime compared to the other Districts. You may think it's inconsequential, but the truth _will_ come out sooner or later. Chambray can't pretend to be her brother forever, and the moment she slips up _everyone_ will see how one-sided and exploitable the Games are."

Celestia doesn't argue. As much as she wants to humour Calico like Malvolia suggested, Horace has a point. If the boy dies, his sister may very well expose the fault in the Games Celestia has tried to make bigger and better over the last fifteen years. If the boy lives, who knows how long it'll take for some gossipy investigative journalist to uncover the truth?

"The Hemingways are working-class kids from a blue-collar family," Horace continues, voice lower. "If we'd focused on those who'd committed crimes against the Capitol rather than those who grew up without even a single thought of rebellion, we wouldn't have as big—if any mess to clean up. We may not have as many patriots as we do citizens without opinion, but we do have people who are complacent. If they see someone who breaks the rules around them being punished, you know what they'll think?"

Celestia sucks in a breath. "What will they think, Horace?"

" _Thank God I did as I was told._ "

Now that's a way of thinking she hasn't heard in a while. Damn Horace, his ramblings about _improving_ and _revising_ her beloved Games is starting to make sense. Calico and Chambray are a PR nightmare. If neither had been reaped because of their upstanding upbringing and family, then maybe all of this wouldn't be falling apart in her hands. Celestia clenches the doorknob tighter.

Damn him.

She nods once and says, just as quiet as he had been, "I'll think it over after the final eight interviews conclude."

Horace pulls his hand back, letting her open the door at last. "Thank you, President Snow. I promise you won't regret considering it."

Celestia huffs. "Don't make promises you can't keep, Mr. Becskei."

She pulls the door open, and inside the Gamemakers all turn to them. Celestia puts her game face on, beaming at the sight of Malvolia helming it all.

"Mally, look how far we are!" she cheers. Malvolia lets out a squee and throws her arms out, beckoning Celestia over for a hug. Horace ambles in quietly behind her as she hurries over to her friend's side. The two embrace, just as giddy as they were when Malvolia pulled out the Quell twist.

A small line of Gamemakers stands behind Malvolia, all having risen out of respect for Celestia. She only recognises Magnus, who'd been in the same classes as Malvolia at the university. The others are a younger Gamemaker, with long hair and deer antlers implanted just at the crown of their head; a woman who's closer to Malvolia's age than anyone else, her face somewhat familiar but not enough for Celestia to know her name; and of course, an intern from the university with a look of utter nervousness on his face, like he's about to explode if even a single thing goes wrong.

Celestia gestures to them, but the one with antlers notices Horace's presence and hurries over to his side.

"Uncle, you're here?" comes the confused demand. Horace smiles at the Gamemaker and nods.

"The president asked for me to be present," he says. "Hope you don't mind?"

"A relative, Mr. Becskei?" Celestia calls, interrupting them. As much as she hates gossiping journalists, she does so hate to be out of the loop. "One you neglected to tell me of?"

"You never asked," Horace tells her, smug. At the very least, Malvolia introduces the Gamemaker.

She gestures to the younger and says, "This is Carna, Mr. Becskei's…. What was the word, Carna?"

"Nibling," Carna supplies matter-of-factly.

"Nibling, yes. Child of his sister. She's similar to Simoleon, using neutral pronouns as well as feminine ones." Malvolia shrugs. "She's rather excellent at thinking outside the box. Even suggested the use of the sabotages when the issue of half the tributes being Capitolites arose."

Celestia looks to Carna with raised brows. She holds out a hand, which the young Gamemaker wastes no time in taking.

"I look forward to seeing your work, Mx. Becskei," Celestia tells her.

Malvolia moves on to the other Gamemakers, introducing them one by one as Carna returns to her place in line.

"We have Eunice, who just joined this year. Her qualifications were astounding, and I've had her assigned to the vital signs of outer District tributes. Next to her is our intern, Esra—he has aspirations to design muttations once he graduates. And, of course, you know Magnus Tweed."

Magnus nods. "Madam President."

Celestia nods back. She peeks over Malvolia's shoulder, to the screens displaying the remaining four alliances. There's blank screens around them, in sleep mode until someone branches away to form a fifth viewpoint.

"Shall we get to the good stuff, then?" Malvolia asks the two politicians in front of her.

* * *

 **Malvolia Nero, Head Gamemaker**

The moment Morganite leaves the cornucopia is the moment they all get into their places. Eunice hovers over the vital signs for all the tributes, one of which is already failing. Esra hovers behind Carna, watching as she takes notes on the tributes and logs their data into the system. Magnus, just as he had been a mere day ago, still lazes in his wheely chair and watches everyone else work.

Malvolia stands in front of the screens and pays careful attention to the tributes on display.

The first thing she notices is the alliance formed by Morganite, consisting of Gossamer, Octavia, Ham and Calico as well as herself. An odd teamup, but she's definitely thinking objectively if her plan is to end the Games as soon as possible. Which tributes would be better suited to self-destructing while facing off against Cetronia, if not them?

So far the only ones not involved are Luxor and Finn, which she's sure will change once the numbers are whittled down. Morganite wants out, most likely, and getting out means hunting down the rest once the wall is knocked down. Whether or not Morganite lives that long remains to be seen, though.

"Turn up the volume for the Ten-Eight-Seven-Six group," she tells Carna. Carna does so obediently, raising the volume just enough to hear the group over the others conversing.

They all stand near each other, with the exception of the weakened Calico, as Morganite discusses her plan. It's a solid plan—overwhelm Cetronia and pick off the others, or simply leave once Cetronia's dead and find the other District tributes—but Malvolia knows it won't go as smoothly as the naive girl wants it to. Too much pride between them all. Too much desire to be the one to win.

" _If it's the five of us, we might be able to do it_ ," Morganite finishes. Gossamer crosses his arms and looks at her down his nose.

" _She's dying_ ," he says, nodding down at Calico. Malvolia is surprised that Gossamer, of all people, hasn't found out about the boy's identity. " _I can probably contribute as two people with my experience. I am a Peacekeeper's son, after all._ "

Octavia bristles, and she snaps, " _Ham's dying too, thanks to you. And y'know what? I'll count myself as two people as well. You don't cut up and haul meat everywhere and get nothing out of it._ "

Gossamer shrugs. " _Everyone dies at some point_ ," he says airily.

"I doubt they'll even make it to the cornucopia with all this animosity," Malvolia sighs. She looks to Eunice. "How's Cyber's vitals?"

"He's shut down his nervous system and heart," she reports. "He's on borrowed time as of five minutes ago."

A shame. Even if he's one of the tributes who leaves, he won't survive. No one knows how his body functions or even the technology he'd been fused with. Dr. Tronovsky never left any notes, though Malvolia suspects the uncle who'd sold Cyber to the Capitol had something to do with that.

What a waste of life-saving information, she thinks.

"They're on the move," Carna interrupts her. Malvolia looks back at the screen, and she sees the girls have backed away somewhat as Gossamer gestures to Calico.

" _Gimmie a minute_ ," he says. " _I have to take care of something_."

To Malvolia's surprise, Gossamer immediately sets to work hiding Calico once the girls can't see him anymore. Gossamer hoists the boy over his shoulder, met with minimal resistance—"Hemingway's gone unconscious," Eunice reports—as he heads for the former Odair Street. She cracks a smile as she watches him shift rubble, only to bury Calico underneath the blanket and then layer the rubble over him carefully.

Smart boy, she thinks. Guess he wasn't lying about respecting his idea of Chambray. Malvolia wonders if Calico will stay put, or if someone else will stumble upon him.

"Gossamer's got his District partner chosen," Malvolia announces. All eyes move for her, her team waiting for her to go on. "He would've either killed or left Calico for dead if he didn't care. It's safe to say we can apprehend Chambray Hemingway. Detain her until we know for certain Calico dies from the aspestine in his lungs."

Two Gamemakers leave the room, telling her they'll alert the Peacekeepers in Eight.

Before Gossamer leaves, he rifles through the bag he and Calico share and pulls out the chemistry kit. It hasn't seen use yet, but now Malvolia knows for certain it will. He pulls out one of the vials, the substance inside a thin white powder.

"Zoom in on the label," Malvolia says. One of the older Gamemakers switches on another screen, showing a still image of the label on the vial prior to Gossamer removing it. "Sodium."

Gossamer jogs to the lake where the girls wait for him. He has the vial hidden up his sleeve, a dangerous place to hide it in case the lid comes loose, but it seems he's desperate to keep a literal trick up his sleeve. Ham holds her shield in a defensive stance, looking about ready to keel over any second now. Malvolia chews her lip. The girl won't survive this skirmish.

They move in the direction of the cornucopia—Morganite armed with one of Octavia's spare knives, as well as her own, while Octavia wields the lamb cleaver and Gossamer twirls the hatchet in his hand, a weak Ham shambling behind them. They appear to have a plan in mind, Morganite and Gossamer moving to one side while Ham and Octavia move to the other. Everyone in the Gamemaker HQ watches with bated breaths as the four tributes advance, both Morganite and Octavia running their knives loudly against the metal casing of the cornucopia.

From another screen, Cetronia wakes up with a start. Croix and Valentina spring to their feet, the former grabbing for anything he can use to defend himself while the latter shakily loads a bolt onto her crossbow. Cetronia grabs her morning star, storming past the duo, and she emerges with it raised to strike the first person she sees.

Cyber's vitals go dark. He's officially braindead.

"Call it," Malvolia orders. Just as Ham emerges, shield at the ready to take Cetronia's blow, the cannon fires in the distance.

Ham flinches, the shield dropping for just a second. It's all Cetronia needs, swinging the morning star directly down on Ham's skull. It caves in, and she drops to the ground like a sack of bricks. Octavia screeches and tackles Cetronia. Ham's cannon fires.

Gossamer and Morganite emerge from the other side, Morganite ready to lunge at Cetronia with her knives. Croix dashes out, his weapon—a sickle attached to a chain—aiming for Morganite. The blade doesn't hit her, the girl shoved out of the way by Gossamer. Instead it buries itself in his shoulder, and Gossamer grabs the chain and yanks Croix his way.

Everyone in Gamemaker HQ lets out audible hisses of sympathy as Gossamer smashes the vial of sodium all over Croix's face with his bare hand. Croix screams, and behind him Valentina begins weeping and screaming as well.

"Finn and Luxor are on the move," Carna reports. The boys in question are shimmying a bedsheet out of the rubble, their supplies balanced carefully upon it.

Malvolia looks back to the skirmish happening once more, and she sees Cetronia shove Octavia off of her with a loud yell. Octavia lands on Ham's body, blocking Cetronia from her morning star. She pulls the shield out from under her dead ally as Morganite tries to get Cetronia's attention. A swift backhand from the older girl sends Morganite flying, her knives all but lost from her grip as she lands just feet away from Cyber.

By the time Cetronia turns back around to face Octavia, the shield is above Octavia's chest and blocks the first punch thrown her way.

Behind them, Gossamer hacks at the blinded Croix's leg before kicking him to the ground, the teen crawling away with blood trailing after him. Gossamer's sights turn to Valentina, who's aiming carefully at Octavia, and he jumps into the fray once more just before she can fire. Gossamer disrupts her line of sight just enough for her to scream and try to get away from him, and the bolt fires by accident.

It goes right through both of Cetronia's cheeks.

Cetronia screeches and flies off of Octavia in pain. As this happens, Gossamer swings the hatchet down at Valentina's arm and kicks her to the ground. He pulls the sickle out of his shoulder, wincing in tremendous pain, and wraps the chain around her neck. He yanks it as hard as he can while holding her down with his foot.

"Losing Valentina," Eunice reports.

"Keep an eye on it…"

As this happens, Morganite is back on her feet and sprints over to Cetronia, a spare knife in her hand. Half of her face is already bruising, her lips bleeding and her nose clearly broken from the landing. She drives the knife into Cetronia's back and drags in down, and Cetronia kicks back at her. Morganite falls to the ground with a grunt.

"Valentina's gone." Eunice fires the cannon.

Gossamer takes a moment to breathe, and as he does Octavia staggers back to her feet and throws the shield to the ground. She picks her lamb cleaver back up, aiming to slice at Cetronia with it, but she doesn't get the chance. The blade knicks the taller girl's shoulder as she grabs Octavia by the collar of her shirt and throws what has to be the most painful punch Malvolia's ever seen hit a face.

Cetronia gets in two more punches, staggering Octavia, before Gossamer jumps back into the fray and buries the hatchet as deep as he can into Cetronia's shoulder. Morganite joins him, Octavia holding Cetronia's fist in place as best she can—and then another hit, and Eunice announces that her vitals are failing. Just as this is announced, Cetronia drops Octavia and turns back to Gossamer and Morganite.

They both stare in horror as she pulls the hatchet from her shoulder and raises it above her head, ready to strike them. And then Octavia, weakened but still with a spark of fight left in her, yanks the morning star from Ham's corpse and lobs it at Cetronia's legs.

Cetronia drops to the ground, drops the hatchet, and Morganite uses the window of opportunity to drive her knife through Cetronia's chest.

"Losing Cetronia," Eunice reports, voice colder. Malvolia's never heard her use such a tone before.

"Who are we losing quicker, her or Octavia?"

Eunice hesitates. "Cetronia, ma'am."

Malvolia nods. She watches as Gossamer and Morganite, wheezing and catching their breaths, turn to Octavia. Cetronia drops to the ground, the fight gone from her body, and she locks gazes with the battered and bruised Octavia as the two begin to perish.

In a final act of defiance, the speakers pick up Octavia slurring at Cetronia, " _You're… excused…_ "

Cetronia's cannon fires.

* * *

 **Horace Becskei, Guest of Celestia Snow**

"Hold on," he says. Carna looks back at him, his nibling probably realising the same thing he has. "How many are left now?"

All eyes fall to Malvolia.

" _Shit_ ," she hisses. "We had interviews."

"I'm sure we'll be excused for lack of numbers," Celestia scoffs. She walks over to where Malvolia stands, placing a hand on her shoulder. "That was quite the spectacle, after all."

He glances over at the Gamemaker watching vital signs. Something isn't right, he thinks. She's tense now, staring at the screen in front of her with blank eyes. Horace swallows thickly, and he looks back over at Carna. She's got Gamemakers either side of her, and he can't help feeling like she's been boxed in.

Eunice, the Gamemaker he's feeling off about, rises from her seat. She fires Octavia's cannon, announcing the girl dead, and staggers over to Malvolia and Celestia. Her hands are in her pockets.

Horace clears his throat. "Carna, a word?"

Carna obediently rises from her seat and joins his side. He leans down and whispers in her ear, "Go get the Peacekeepers. Pretend you're getting a drink."

Without missing a beat, she calls out, "Getting a coffee; anyone want anything while I'm out?"

A few people yell out their orders, thanking Carna as she strides out of the room calmly. When Horace looks back at Eunice, he finds his gaze being met by cold, dead eyes. She raises one finger to her lips, shushing him like she's just shared a special secret with him, and then turns back to President Snow and Head Gamemaker Nero.

"Ma'am," Eunice says in a flat tone. Malvolia inclines her head to her. "I'm afraid I have to resign from my position."

Several Gamemakers all pause their businesses. Some of them reach into their coat pockets. Horace watches in horror as one prematurely reveals their knife.

"Malvolia, Celestia!" he yells. Eunice lunges, her knife digging in deep into Celestia's torso. Malvolia shoves her off, eyes wide as Celestia stumbles back. She falls into the arms of another Gamemaker—and he drives his knife into her back.

Horace sprints forward and slugs the Gamemaker. He can feel a few blades slicing at his skin, but he knows how to fight back. He wanted to go into Peacekeeping before politics became his true calling, for crying out loud!

Magnus, previously bored and prone, springs to life like he's been reborn. He hurls the chair he'd been sitting on at Eunice, knocking her to the floor. Absolute carnage breaks loose. Malvolia dives for the intercom at her station, and she yells a warning into it. It blares through the PA system so loudly that a few of the assaulting Gamemakers cringe in pain.

"Attention all staff!" she yells. One Gamemaker makes it behind her, but is tackled to the ground by the intern. Esra deserves a fucking medal, Horace thinks. "We've been breached by unknown assailants! Lockdown the Games Building until the foreseeable future! The president is down! I repeat, the president is down!"

A knife is thrown at her with trained precision. It slices Malvolia's throat, miraculously nonlethal, and she drops to her knees as she attempts to put pressure on the wound.

Celestia grabs Horace's jacket, leaning on him with laboured breaths. He looks down at her, the Gamemakers slowly being taken down by those loyal to the president. Blood flies everywhere, injuries all over the place, but one by one they're apprehended. Peacekeepers storm into the room, Carna behind them, and she stops at the sight with a horrified gasp.

Horace lowers Celestia to the ground, easing the strain on her legs holding her up. She stares at him with unbridled rage, and he feels like slapping himself. If he'd known this would happen, he wouldn't have pushed for precautions against rebellion so forcibly. This is salt in Celestia's wound, a fact she can't look past anymore for the sake of fun.

"You—" she gasps. Horace holds her still, trying to help with her wounds. She _needs_ to be careful. For all they know, her lungs could be filling with blood as they speak. "H— _Horace_ —"

"We need to get her out!" he yells back to the Peacekeepers. Celestia smacks him hard against the face, surprising Horace into silence.

When he looks back down at her, she snarls, " _Do it_."

"Celestia?"

" _Punish_ —" She wheezes. "—Punish _them_!"

The Peacekeepers he'd called over carry her out. As quickly as it had started, the attack is brought to a halt before Horace's eyes.

He stares down at the floor, where too much blood has been shed outside the arena. He rises to his feet, Carna rushing to his side, and fixes his jacket.

What an _absolute_ mess this Quell has been.

* * *

 ***Cracks knuckles* Alright, just once I'm doing eulogies during a day chapter. Y'all went through too much with this chapter jnfkkfdngd but first a QQ!**

 **QQ #37:** What was the biggest surprise of this chapter and why?

 **Eulogies:**

 **11th Place: Cyber Tronovsky, C-District 7, 12 - Sent by Platrium  
Died of system failure  
**A good boy... Writing his scenes with Morg killed me ngl. He played a big part in starting this big skirmish, whether he knew it or not, and the fact that he was able to go peacefully under the sky, watching the clouds makes me happy for him. Rest, li'l guy, and thanks for sending him Plat.

 **10th Place: Phyllis "Ham" Hamilton, District 7, 18 - Made by me  
** **Maced by Cetronia**  
She was my character and I hadn't intended for her to live this long wheeze. Rip little Hammy, putting up with a hole in your stomach for five dang days hot damn.

 **9th Place: Valentina Teagan, C-District 1, 16 - Sent by misfit-right-in  
Strangled to death by Gossamer  
**Val was a good contender for victor! She loved adventure and wanted to give new things a try, but overall she got in over her head and couldn't handle the stress of the Games. It felt like a good place to put her after asking myself where, but she'll be missed for sure! RIP our volunteer Val. Thanks for sending her, Cass.

 **8th Place: Cetronia Livius, District 2, 17 - Sent by palm-biitch  
Died of her injuries inflicted by Gossamer, Morganite and Octavia**  
Three people to take her down, hot damn. Cetronia felt like a really good hidden villain after all the stuff that went down pre-Games, especially since she was just so much more experienced and physically powerful than everyone else. I liked showing her rational but softer side with Cyber, sparing him by reminding him what victory will bring him. Thanks for sending her, Jerm.

 **7th Place: Octavia Faye, District 10, 17 - Sent by mukkou  
Died of her injuries inflicted by Cetronia**  
The temptation to put her in 8th was so strong lmao. Octavia was a great source of salt though and her dialogue with Ham was gold. The fact that she's a Capitolphobic character made for amazing interactions with C-District tributes, which not many other District tributes had - maybe only shared with Jareth? It was fun writing her, thanks for sending her, Blair.

 **Till next time!**


	44. Final Six Interviews

**43 - Final Six Interviews**

 **Lola Amos, Host for the Hunger Games**

"What in the world do you _mean_ , the president's been attacked!?" She grabs the assistant by the shoulders and holds him in place. "It's the middle of a Quell! Who the _hell_ would attack her in the middle of a _Quell_!?"

The assistant is on the verge of tears, blubbering between Lola's outbursts. He's probably one of the newer ones, not used to the behind the scene freakouts regarding the Games.

"I have people waiting outside for interviews!" she goes on. "How am I going to explain to these people, whose children are in possibly _the_ most controversial Hunger Games yet, that I can't let them in?"

"I don't know," the assistant weeps.

"Does _anyone_ in this building know _anything_!?"

The PA system above beeps. Lola hadn't heard the earlier announcement, too absorbed in making sure everyone was in place at each District for final interviews, and had heard the news from the assistant. It's been half an hour, apparently, since the initial announcement. She'll make certain not to miss this one.

An unfamiliar voice fills the room, and Lola strains to try put a face to it. " _This is Gamemaker Becskei reporting from Gamemaker HQ. President Snow and Head Gamemaker Nero are both in critical condition and being taken to the medical ward for emergency treatment. The order has been given to continue the Games as planned._ "

Lola huffs. She fixes the skirt of her dress, specially made to resemble the little doll Tooru had given her less than a week ago, and turns back to her desk.

Gamemaker Becskei doesn't stop there.

" _Due to an attempt at breaching Elysium by an unknown group, we ask that everyone please cooperate with the Peacekeepers in the vicinity should they stop you for questioning. We want to ensure not only the safety of our staff, but also our treasured guests and audience members, and we will inform you if any changes are made to the Games schedule._ "

The PA switches off. Lola's head spins at the news. An unknown group trying to breach the arena? Lola had been watching the feed of the big fight that broke out—it _has_ to be connected to Octavia's mother somehow. Lola had so wanted to bring attention to Isabelle Eulane during her interview, but Octavia sidetracked her so easily with gossip about her love life. But it all makes sense. The woman's been on the run since before Octavia was born, after all. Settled in Ten for only a few years, and now she's missing again.

It can't be a coincidence that, just as Octavia's cannon was fired, an attack was launched on Gamemaker HQ. Lola chews the nail of her thumb and looks back over at the assistant. He squeaks and stands upright, probably expecting another screaming match.

She has a few eyes and ears around the Capitol, even buys information to use for interviews on tributes during training sessions. Lola _knows_ people who can get to the bottom of this. She knows one person who won't resist something as big as this. She pulls a notepad out of her desk and scribbles a name and phone number. For added measure, she scribbles a three-digit number at the very bottom—a code she knows her contact will recognise. She strides over to the assistant and places it firmly in his hand, her gaze boring a hole into his skull.

"You call this man," she says lowly, "and you tell him to contact me the _minute_ interviews conclude. Give him the number at the bottom of the note and _do not_ say anything else."

The assistant audibly gulps. He stares at her like a deer caught in the headlights.

" _Now_ ," she growls.

He scrambles out without a word. Lola heaves a sigh and runs her hand down her face. All this chaos going on, and she _still_ has to interview families mourning their children. At least it's only six families this time around, she reassures herself.

The chaos has passed, she tries to tell herself. All that remains is regular procedures, regular interviews. She even gets to save time by doing it face-to-face with four of the families. There's _nothing_ to worry about anymore. So Celestia and Malvolia are in the medical ward; the show can still go on! In fact, the show has been ordered to do so!

She plasters the fakest smile she can muster on her face and exits her office. She makes her way to the elevator, where she'll stop at the lobby to pick up family members of the Capitol children remaining.

Lola's met with only seven people rather than the expected eight when she arrives. Luxor's parents, Morganite's parents, Croix's parents—and then just Gossamer's brother, smiling calmly yet also with a degree of smugness at Lola when she realises he's alone. Raime and Floresca Wormwood haven't deigned to show up for their son's biggest achievement thus far.

"If you'll follow me," Lola tells them. Croix's mother is already wiping at her eyes with a handkerchief. She'll definitely need to go through makeup before coming out onstage. "I'll lead you backstage and you'll be treated to snacks while you wait for your turns. And thank you so much for coming."

Darios Aricunai just sneers at her. He's clearly the most unhappy about having to be interviewed at all.

Lola leaves them behind once the arrive backstage, instead making her way to her chair as the audience slowly files in and find their seats. In front of her is two other chairs, no extras necessary since no more than two per tribute arrived, and she spends the few silent seconds in the darkness to fix her bangs and smooth her skirt once more.

An assistant comes out and clips her microphone to her bodice. She puts her earpiece in, making sure it's comfortable and out of sight, and then crosses one leg over the other.

The show must go on.

The lights come on and Lola gestures to the crowd, who applaud the sight of her. "Ladies and gentlemen, can you believe we're here already?" she announces. The crowd cheers. "Not even final eight, but a final _six_! The last day has been full of surprises, hasn't it?"

She fakes a laugh and listens for reports on how the Farringtons are doing. According to one stylist, Natania is too hysterical to even make pretty for the camera. Lola settles into her chair and waits for the crowd to quieten.

"Because of the special nature of this Quell, perhaps even this Hunger Games overall, the interviews are being broadcast live over the night sky of Elysium. That's right, our final six can see what their loved ones and fans have to say about them!"

The crowd oohs and ahs, settling once more.

"Nikostratos, Finnegan, Morganite, Luxor, Chambray and Gossamer," she lists off. Behind her a screen is projected, the lights dimming once more. "It's been such a wonderful journey with all six of them, despite how briefly we've known them. For our first interview, which will be live and in the studio, let's look back on some of our favourite aspiring Gamemaker's moments in the Games."

Suddenly the screen behind her flickers to an image of Croix, standing tall and proud at the reapings as Synthia greets him. It switches to his chariot costume, Daphne expertly cropped out of the image, and then they show footage of his time in the Games. The crowd cheers as clips of him and Gossamer flicker by, showing Croix exercising his intellectual prowess. Lola spots a few cringes in the crowd as footage of the owl throwing him in the air, spear and all, is played; they turn to pride, as Croix emerges victorious from the owl's stomach.

The final image is of him right now, sprawled out on the ground and laying in a pool of his own blood. His leg has left a thick trail from the cornucopia, where Gossamer left him for dead, and the demiboy can hardly see as harsh burns cover most, if not all of his face. He's in worse shape than most are around this point.

When the lights come back on, Elias and Natania Farrington are sitting on their seats across from Lola. Natania has her face buried in her hands, and Elias stares up at the image of Croix with pain in his eyes.

"Mr. and Mrs. Farrington," Lola says, voice soft, "thank you so much for coming here tonight."

Natania lets out a wail. Elias comforts her with an embrace across the two chairs. "It's the least we could do for our Nikostratos," Elias tells her.

"How did you react to the news of his reaping? I can't imagine how frightening the Quell twist to even _think about_ him being involved in."

Elias sniffs. He sounds weary when he replies, "We weren't even home the day of the reapings. He—He was with his friend, I think—a classmate named Sturgeon. They loved to compete against each other…

"Natania and I were shell-shocked. He had such a bright future, Lola—he was set for the top Gamemaker university in the Capitol! If he hadn't been reaped—" Elias chokes himself to a stop and covers his face with his hand. His shoulders shake.

"You talk like he's already dead, with all due respect," Lola points out. Natania pulls away from her husband and sucks in a deep breath.

"Look at him!" she screeches. The feedback from her mic is enough to make Lola cringe. "Look at my baby! That Wormwood boy left him for dead! He could've disarmed him or knocked him unconscious! He won't survive the—"

There's a muffled cannon sounding off from the screen. Natania goes pale, her gaze slowly turning for Croix, and for a moment her expression is unreadable. The crowd is dead silent, all of them staring with Croix's mother at his now lifeless body.

Natania collapses out of her chair and wails with renewed despair on the stage. Elias joins her, rubbing her back as he tries to muffle his own sobs.

Lola can't force the smile through this—it's insensitive, for one thing—and she's suddenly all too aware that this _isn't_ going to be easier than eight families.

Assistants come to escort the couple out as Natania begins apologising to Croix on the screen. The live feed shows the hovercraft coming in to pick him up, and Lola can only wait for the right moment to speak again.

Once the Farringtons are offstage, interview cut off far too soon, she says, "Ladies and gentlemen, a moment of silence for the Farringtons, if you will."

The audience complies. Just as she can see the Gardierre family waiting anxiously at the edge of the stage, Lola motions for the feed of Croix to turn off.

"As they're already here for interviews, the Gamemakers will allow Mr. and Mrs. Farrington to collect their child's body. I ask that you respect their wishes and not harass them in a media frenzy over this event. Please."

Lola sucks in a huge breath and continues on, "Now, we have our next interview coming up. Unlike the Capitolite families coming in to talk face-to-face, we'll be visiting District Six briefly for our next tribute's family. Let's take a look at Finnegan's journey so far, shall we?"

The Gardierres look visibly relieved that they don't have to go out yet. The lights dim again, the screen flicking through clips of Finn's time in the Games so far. The crowd chortles at the sight of him fainting onstage, so soon after volunteering for his sister. They're louder when they see his hazardous plane costume, almost falling out of the chariot every so often. But then the laughter turns to pity, as the image of Finn being wheeled out onstage for his interview by Morganite plays. They're reminded that he'd probably suffered the most pre-Games, had the biggest disadvantage, and now that they see the clips of him in the Games—helped by his allies out of the bloodbath, hiding in the fridge during the twist, and now, snacking on cold pasta soaked in mineral water with Luxor.

The screen splits into two, and suddenly one of Lola's staff is standing outside a house with three people in front of it. Seeing them now, Lola notices they look nothing like Finn. They may have the same hair and eye colours, at best, but the shapes of their faces are all wrong.

"Now, is this the Styx family I'm talking to?" she asks. The earpieces each family member wears is for sure relaying her questions. Finn's father, Calic, nods and glances at the staff member holding the microphone out to them.

" _Ah, yes_ ," he says into it. " _Thank you for interviewing us, Ms. Amos._ "

"It's my pleasure, Mr. Styx," she tells him. "Your boy's gone through quite the journey during his time in the Capitol. Are you proud of him so far?"

Calic smiles, nodding once more. " _Yes. Gia and I… Well, when we found out it was either Lux or Finn going, we were devastated. He's a kind soul, would never think to even hurt someone else._ "

" _I'm only his step-mother,_ " Gia adds, " _but I've known Finn since he was five. I'm so, so proud of him for protecting his sister and for just…_ " Gia wipes at her eye. " _I'm scared for him, Ms. Amos. The other children, they're ready to kill each other without a second thought. And Finn_ — _Finn's heart wouldn't handle the pain of that burden._ "

"I understand," Lola tells her. "This must be a trying time for you, but at least he knows you're proud of him. I'm sure he'll put in his all to come back home."

" _I hope so_ ," Gia agrees. She puts a hand on the shoulder of the girl beside her, who can't possibly be any older than twelve. This must be Lux, Lola thinks. " _He's a good boy. Such a good,_ wonderful _boy._ "

The crowd coos at her statement. This is more what they were expecting—sorrowful families just wanting their kids to come home.

"Now, Calic," Lola starts, "I understand that Gia is his step-mother. Are you—"

" _Adoptive father_ ," Calic interrupts her. Lola's brows shoot up. No wonder they don't look alike. " _I found him when he was just a baby. Named him after my own father. Even if we're not blood related, though, he's still my son. And I'm still proud of him for pulling through._ " Calic looks at the camera in a different way, like he's trying to convey he's addressing someone other than Lola now. " _Finn, you're doing so amazing. Stay safe, okay?_ "

The camera moves for the child now, and she shrinks away from the microphone as Lola asks, "And you must be Lux, his sister. How are you feeling, sweetie?"

Lux purses her lips. Her face slowly scrunches up, and then she buries it against Gia's side.

" _I'm sorry, Ms. Amos_ ," Gia says softly. " _Finn and Lux, they're best of friends. Lux hasn't been handling him going in her place all that well, I'm afraid._ "

On the screen beside the Styx family, Finn in the arena clutches at his chest and tries to yell up at the sky. Luxor shifts closer to him, comforting him as the boy's shoulders shake.

Lola prepares to wrap up the interview, but Calic jumps in for a final statement.

" _Before you go, Ms. Amos, can I please say something to the parents of his… Well, to Morganite's parents?_ "

"By all means, Mr. Styx."

He sniffs, swipes at his nose, and says, " _You've raised a wonderful daughter. She could've left my boy to suffer alone, but instead she stood by him in front of all of Panem. I can't thank you enough for giving him that kindness._ "

The screen swipes back into one, and then it dims. Lola stares back in the direction of the Gardierres, and they look absolutely beside themselves at the heartfelt thanks from, to them, a complete stranger.

Lola turns back to the crowd. "Speaking of Morganite," she says. "We're taking a look at her journey next, from its rocky beginning to its powerful present. I think, out of all the Capitol tributes this year, she's given us the most surprises during her time in the Games."

The lights dim, the screen flicking to a clip of Morganite mid-vomit during her reapings. The same clip of the chariots plays again, Morganite looking distressed in her costume, and then it turns into her interview—the gorgeous ensemble she'd been outfitted in, which she strutted with confidence. The crowd actually applauds when the image of her wheeling Finn up onstage plays again. Clips of her in the arena play, showing her fighting with all her might against Adrianne's alliance and eventually Cetronia herself. In a rare out-of-order showing, they end the look back on her journey with the clip of her pulling Cyber out under the clouds, honouring his last request.

Now the only image onscreen is Morganite in the present, her face so severely bruised and battered that one entire eye is closed up by the swelling. Gossamer is pointing at the upper eyelid, and she's holding her knife with a shaking hand. The bodies around them have already been collected.

The lights come back on just as Morganite looks up at the sky, and her parents sit across from Lola with differing expressions over the situation.

"Welcome to the interview, Mr. and Mrs. Gardierre." Lola smiles at them. "You must be very proud of your daughter for making it this far."

Alexandrite opens his mouth to speak, but stern Jourisme beats him to the punchline. "'Proud' is too kind a word, Lola," Jourisme says. "Up until now all she's done is embarrass herself in front of the whole country."

Lola's actually taken aback. Still smiling, she blurts out, "Pardon?"

"Dear," Alexandrite mutters. Jourisme glances at him, but ignores his attempts at getting her to listen to him.

"Regurgitating on live TV, all over her peers," Jourisme lists. "That absolutely scandalous outfit. Getting thrown around like a ragdoll during her one bright moment."

Jourisme throws her hands up and shakes her head, the disappointment clear as day.

"When I retired from escorting to have her, I expected a ladylike, obedient daughter. Instead she's turned into this mess that everyone else has had to look after."

"Now that's not true," Alexandrite interrupts her. Lola watches the exchange like a tennis match. "Look at how far she's come, Jourisme. She's rallied her peers, she's led them to a victory against a _career_. If all she walks out of that with is a bruised face and swollen eye, I'd say she's done incredibly well so far."

Lola clears her throat. "You two… seem to have differing opinions of Morganite?"

Alexandrite nods. "Like Jourisme said, she wants Morganite to be more ladylike. I, however, believe little Nite is just finding herself. We all go through that time in our lives where we want to see where we fit in the world. She's exploring her options, wants to follow her mother's footsteps but in her own way."

"Dancing to the beat of her own drum, is what she's doing," Jourisme grumbles.

Wow. Lola can't help wondering how this family functions with such opposing forces at the helm. No wonder Morganite did what she wanted for the most part before the Games.

"Well, if it's any consolation," Lola tries, "she's got quite the following in the Capitol. Right, folks?"

The crowd hollers in response. Jourisme turns beet red at the sight and crosses her arms in front of her chest.

"I didn't come here to be critiqued about how I want to raise my daughter, Ms. Amos," she says.

"And I'm not critiquing," Lola fires back. "I'm pointing out how much she's accomplished so far. She's in the final _six_ , Mrs. Gardierre. Very few untrained tributes make it this far, and that's just among District children."

Alexandrite smiles knowingly at his wife. Jourisme huffs.

"But enough of that," Lola goes on. She looks up at the screen, where Morganite now looks hopeless at the words of her mother. "Do you want to say anything to her before your interview ends? I'm sure she's missed you after all this time."

Jourisme beats Alexandrite once more. "If you choose one time in your life to not make a mistake that will ruin everything," she says, "let it be now, Morganite."

And suddenly Morganite on the screen goes from hopeless to angry. She jumps to her feet, throwing her dagger to the ground, and Jourisme watches in horror as Morganite yells soundlessly up at the sky. Gossamer grins the whole time, clearly amused by what he's hearing.

At the very least, Alexandrite gets one statement in before the interview comes to a close. He holds up his hand and displays the ring on his finger, little morganite gemstones embedded along its band.

"I'm supporting you one hundred percent, Morganite," he says. It calms the girl somewhat, and then the couple are escorted offstage.

What a mess of a relationship, Lola thinks.

She's halfway through, though, and at least the next interview is for a District family. If she has to guess, they'll be the calmer interviews of the night. Less drama among the working class.

Three more, Lola. Just three more.

"And now we move on to the first of our Eight tributes remaining," she says. "Chambray certainly went unnoticed until she scored that twelve in training, and so far she's been quite the wildcard in the arena. Let's look back on her journey."

The lights dim. Quick images of Chambray being reaped, of being helped up onto the stage for Luxor's reaping by Ham, flash by. Then they switch to the chariot, where her ridiculous collar takes up half the headspace of the chariot. It changes to her interview gown, a wedding dress with her token as the centrepiece around her neck. And then, in a shocking display of brutality, it switches to her cooking the oats for Avita and Quatra in poisoned water. The shy girl looks cold and collected as Avita foams at the mouth, and she wastes no time ending Quatra's life as the other girl lays prone.

The crowd is eerily silent at the mere sight of it. Lola can't blame them. The girl took down a spy from one of the biggest espionage families in Panem. Until now, no one knew what even one of the X family members looked like. It's no easy feat, taking down one of their ranks.

The feed changes to the outside of the toppled building Gossamer buried her under, and Lola can just barely see the blanket he's covered her with. It blends rather well with the rubble, she thinks.

"The underdog of the Games so far, I'd say," Lola comments, breaking the silence. The crowd murmurs, half agreeing and half wanting Chambray to pass already.

Footage of District Eight begins to play, and it takes Lola a moment to realise the camera's been kept on as it's been hidden in a bag. She laughs nervously.

"Hello?" she calls. "Is anyone there?"

Screaming sounds out from the camera's mic, distant and anguished. From the small view the crowd has, a house is shown to be raided by Peacekeepers. Lola blanches.

"I don't believe we're meant to be seeing th—"

" _Chambray Hemingway_ ," comes a voice, most likely one of the Peacekeepers. " _You're being detained under suspicion of rebellion against Panem._ "

" _Callie, what's going on_ —"

" _Silence!_ " A smack sounds out. Lola's hand flies to her mouth before she can stop herself. The camera is lifted somewhat, and now she can see what's happening. Chambray's twin is being dragged out of the house, hands cuffed behind him as the Peacekeeper drags him by his hair. His parents soon follow, the mother with a cheek that's slowly turning red. " _You two aren't free of guilt, either._ "

" _I'm sorry, Mom!_ " Calico sobs hysterically. It's the exact opposite of what Lola's read his emotional state to be. " _I was scared! He said we'd be okay! I_ — _I'm sorry!_ "

" _Cham?_ " the father gasps. He gets dragged away by the Peacekeepers as well, and Lola looks back to the crowd with wide eyes. If she's just heard right, and if the crowd isn't stupid, then she knows exactly what they all heard.

The cameraman curses and switches off the camera. Everyone stares in stunned silence.

They've all just witnessed Chambray Hemingway, who's supposed to be in the arena, arrested for treason in District Eight. Live.

Lola looks over at the couple waiting backstage, wondering if the Aricunais are fit for live TV. Relope isn't quite beside herself yet, looking more stunned and angered by the revelation onscreen. Darios, though… Lola can't possibly figure out why Darios is smiling with so much satisfaction. Did he know all along? Did all of the Gamemakers know? Lola's head spins, the murmuring crowd slowly moving farther and farther away.

 _You have to keep going, Lola_ , comes the little voice in her head. Lola blinks, still stunned, and tries to stay in character. It's her earpiece, she reminds herself. Someone backstage is pulling her back to reality.

Lola clears her throat and looks back to the crowd.

"Now, now, everyone," she calls. The crowd slowly looks her way, silent again. "I'm sure there's an explanation for this, but tonight is a celebration of our final s—" She wants to smack herself. She forgot Croix. "Final five. We can't let ourselves be distracted from their accomplishments thus far."

There's a few quiet agreements. For the most part, the crowd looks nervous. Lola feels the same.

"Why don't we take a look back our Capitol sweetheart's journey thus far? Everyone was devastated when Luxor was reaped," she says, "but he's proven himself to be more than just a pretty face!"

The lights dim, casting a dull shadow over Darios's face as he grins. The screen behind her lights up with footage of Luxor being reaped as his escort screeches happily. Then it switches to his chariot costume, with its hideous pantaloons, before showing off his outburst at his interview. The crowd cheers anxiously at the clip of him shooting Gossamer's behind in the bloodbath, and they go awkwardly silent when a clip of him hugging Ch— Calico plays. The mood lightens with the final clip of him heroically removing debris from the fridge he'd shown Finn, and then finally it settles on him in this moment: Horrified at Calico's interview, looking more crestfallen than offended.

He knew, Lola realises.

When the lights come back on she's met with that same satisfied smile. Christmas came early for Darios despite knowing beforehand all he'd get was coal. He's just glad everyone else got it too. Relope has her arms crossed over her chest, her disappointment clear as day, but Lola can't tell who she's disappointed in.

Lola swallows a thick lump in her throat. "Gamemaker Aricu—"

"Let's cut the formalities, Lola," Darios interrupts. She's not even going to pretend to be cheerful over this. The man will probably be arrested mid-interview for what he's about to do. "We've just witnessed possibly the biggest act of rebellion since the Dark Days, and you're all ignoring it. You all _knew_ about it beforehand."

"Darios, I can assure you—"

"Not _you_ ," he snaps. He gestures to the building, implying the staff. "Malvolia and her staff! You think no one noticed this farce? He exposed himself in his private session to us!"

The crowd gasps.

Relope scowls. "My Luxor was wrongfully reaped," she says. She turns her fury to Lola. "And you're just sitting here acting like nothing's wrong!"

Her earpiece buzzes, all of the staff being addressed. " _Get them off the stage now!_ "

"If you ask me," Darios goes on, "this tradition has been defiled by our president and her Head Gamemaker. Back when we were beginning the Games as a society we would bring everything to a halt for the sake of what we're owed!"

Lola does the last thing she expects to. She lunges out of her seat and reaches for the mic on Darios's collar, determined to silence him. She's worked _too hard_ for him to just _ruin everything_ with his rebellious rhetoric thinly veiled as patriotic critique. Darios jumps out of his chair and points at Lola like it's an _aha!_ moment.

"See?" he yells to the crowd. "Now she's trying to silence me!"

"You're scaring them!" Lola yells back. A message through her earpiece announces that the microphones have all been turned off, leaving only the front row of the audience to barely hear them. "Please, Gamemaker Aricunai, you must be reasonable about this!"

"What's there to be reasonable about?" Relope chimes in. Peacekeepers, all watched with a gleeful expression from Velour, storm the stage. "My son is going to die because those—those _lackluster parents_ couldn't keep their problem child in check!"

The couple is escorted offstage by the Peacekeepers. Lola is left standing onstage and stressed beyond belief. She can't take much more of this. She can't take her final interview being with a Wormwood. Lola collapses into her chair, and her earpiece informs her that her mic is back on. Lola sighs hopelessly.

Velour Wormwood walks himself out onstage. He sits down, silent as a predator, across from Lola and gives her a pleasant smile.

"Ms. Amos," he greets her. Lola doesn't even bother pointing out that Gossamer's clips haven't played. "Shall we wrap this up?"

Lola gestures weakly to the screen. "Gossamer Wormwood, everyone," she drawls.

The lights dim a final time, the screen showing the uneventful reaping of Gossamer before changing to his feathery chariot costume. He appears dazzling at his interview, and then clips of him fighting in the arena flash by. Kicking Ham down, taking a hit for Morganite. Rushing Cetronia with the girls. Now it cuts to him in the present, and it's hard to miss the absolute look of disgust on his face—probably at the knowledge his brother is here. Lola can't imagine two similar people getting along much.

Velour looks smug as he says to Lola, "This is the biggest mess I've ever seen you make."

Lola cradles her head in her hands. "Thank you, Mr. Wormwood…"

"I suppose this is where I tell you how _great_ and _wonderful_ my little brother is, yes? How growing up with him was a dream?"

"If you would be so kind."

Velour smirks. "Well, it was nice to have a sparring partner who was more like a punching bag."

Wait… What?

Lola looks up at the man. Velour knows he has her full attention now. "Was never really on my level, Gossie," he muses. "The inferior Wormwood. The disappointing Wormwood, if you asked our parents. They were livid when they found out his career aspirations—a _host_ for events, can you imagine?" He sighs wistfully. "Then again, not even his sexuality is free of our family critique."

Even the crowd is gobsmacked. Is this the right family? Is this the right Velour Wormwood?

"Oh! I actually had to laugh when he got the sickle to the arm. That's where I used to get him with the training swords—hilarious!"

She can't help herself. "Ah. Now a lot of things make sense."

Velour's smile becomes strained. "Excuse me?"

"I said a lot of things about Gossamer make sense now," she says, louder and with more purpose. Velour folds his hands over his lap, goading her on. "On the surface he's just full of himself, ready to use and get rid of others. But I see now that's just the result of something bigger."

He clenches his hands into fists.

"You don't even respect him," she goes on. "He's fighting for his life and using the skills so few children have access to thanks to his Peacekeeper family. Have you had to take a life in your career so far, Mr. Wormwood?"

Velour stares at her. His smile doesn't fall, but it's no longer smug or even kind. It's a blank mask that someone ready to strike would use, if only to keep up appearances in public.

"I asked you a question, Mr. Wormwood."

And somehow Velour answers. "I have not, Ms. Amos. Ideally I would never have to. You are correct about your _assumption_ of my brother."

"My _analysis_ , Mr. Wormwood. I graduated top of my class studying psychology while I began my hosting career. I know the catalysts of certain disorders when I see them."

Velour leans forward. "And what," he whispers, "have you diagnosed my brother with, _Dr._ Amos?"

She wants to say it out loud. She wants to say he's most likely developed Narcissistic Personality Disorder. She wants so bad to say that Velour and their parents are the cause of it. The favouritism of Velour, the abuse he's suffered at his brother's hands during training, the constant critiquing. It's _right there_. It's plain as day.

But she can't make this worse than it already is. Lola folds her hands over her lap and says calmly, "That's not for me to share on live television, Mr. Wormwood."

He leans back and smirks at her. He's probably assuming he'll get the answer later, when her thoughts are unguarded. "Fair enough. But I'll wrap up what I have to say for you so the night can end," he says. "True, I don't respect my brother. He's always been lesser to me, and that won't ever change. But I have no doubt he'll win."

Lola raises a brow.

"It's like you said, Ms. Amos—he's one of the very few to receive Peacekeeper training before going into the arena. With the Warwick boy gone, he's the only one with a sure chance of leading the victory march."

Velour calmly gets up from his seat, hardly waiting for Lola to dismiss him. She looks out to the crowd, who stare in silence. A few clap at an awkward volume, uncertain if they even should be clapping. Lola clears her throat, the earpiece abuzz with orders to end the segment.

She gets up from her chair and addresses the audience.

"Ladies and gentlemen, tonight has been a rocky night," she says. The audience agrees with her. "In light of the night's revelations, we ask that you please not spread misinformation regarding tributes and staff members. I'll see you all tomorrow for day six of the Games, and we'll see where the road takes us.

"I'm your host, Lola Amos. It's been a pleasure."

* * *

Her assistant is nowhere to be found when she comes back to her office. Lola searches high and low for any phones she can use to contact the person she's waiting for, but not a single one can be found. Even the landline, which should be plugged in, is missing the cable entirely.

Lola plants her hands on the desk and huffs. What in the world is happening?

Her door opens, and in walks a man she doesn't recognise. He shuts it behind him, straightens his jacket—and she can see blood on his dress shirt, dried and already staining the material. He looks down at her as he produces a folded piece of paper from his pocket, and Lola just knows it's the paper with her contact's number on it.

"You know," the man says, "you're not the only one who keeps tabs on Valerian St. Clare."

"Who are you?" she demands. Lola reaches under her desk—wait, where's her panic button? It's smooth as a baby's behind under there, save for the small chipped section betraying the removal of the button.

The man pockets the paper and leans against the door. "I'm Horace Becskei, Ms. Amos," he tells her. "I was with the president when the attack went down on Gamemaker HQ. And I'm not letting you shove your nose where it doesn't belong."

She gawks at him. " _Excuse_ —"

"You're excused," he stops her. "You have no reason to know what happens from the source—your job is to report what you're told and nothing more. After what I just witnessed, though, you might not even be suited for that anymore."

Who the hell is this man? Is he firing her? _Can_ he fire her? Lola drags her nails along the desk surface. This night is just getting worse and worse.

"I'm giving you until the finale, Ms. Amos," Horace tells her. He reaches for the door handle and pauses, before adding, "The president and the Head Gamemaker are both in critical condition. We know for certain one is expected to pull through with minimal complications by the time of a victory tour, but the other…" He purses his lips. "We'll see what your fate is after her own becomes apparent."

And with that, Horace Becskei exits the office of Lola Amos.

* * *

 **Well, that's our finalists and their interviews done. I changed the schedule to every few days having an update, so the next one will be the 15th for me in Australia! I'll see you all then, and we'll leave with a QQ and eulogy.**

 **QQ #38:** We all know Finn's interview was the calmest, but who do you think had the most _hectic_ interview?

 **Eulogies:**

 **6th Place: Nikostratos Croix Farrington, C-District 3, 17 - Sent by CelticGames4  
Passed away from his injuries  
**Croix was a fun one to write pre-Games and even during the Games, contending with a certain character for the title of chessmaster. He had a smug charm to him that I liked putting into his POVs, and I hope I did him justice. Thanks for sending him, Celtic!


	45. Night 5, Day 6

**I don't trust myself to wake up on time to post this during the actual date so I'm technically posting at 1am on the 15th djkdsk**

* * *

 **44 - Night 5, Day 6**

 **Luxor Aricunai, 17, C-District 8**  
 _Night 5_

They'd really gone and done it. They'd really exposed Calico's secret for all of Panem to see. And his father supported it the whole time.

Luxor sits next to Finn with his knees drawn to his chest. Neither can bring themselves to sleep yet. Luxor isn't sure he wants to by this point. With only five of them left, there's every chance that Gossamer might come after them and end the Games as soon as possible. There's every chance that Calico will die before them, ending the Games for them.

It sickens Luxor. He wishes this weren't the reality they'd been dealt.

He lays on the ground, salvaged sheet from the rubble wrapped around him. Finn lays across from him, their food nestled between them safely for later consumption. Neither has been in a talkative mood since the interviews concluded.

It's so surreal to think about. Less than a week ago, there was twenty-four of them. All alive, all making friends, all learning about each other. And now there's… well, five now that Croix passed. He's never heard of a Hunger Games that moves so quickly. When most get to five days, it's only a good quarter who have died. Mistakes aren't made with as much abandon, and half of the tributes never have the ability to sabotage the others. More so, he thinks with growing dismay, less than half only needed to die for this to end.

Five. Of those that have died, nine were kids from the Capitol. Nine who were _allowed_ to survive. Now there's just three Capitol kids left. He looks to Finn, the other boy staring blankly at a tupperware container with their unfinished pasta. Two District kids left. It's either Finn or Calico who has to die now, and Luxor's not sure if his heart can handle much more of this.

Luxor rolls onto his back and heaves a sigh. It's almost strange, looking up at the sky now. The interviews had barely lasted an hour, but every time he expects to see the faces of everyone's loved ones staring back at him. The disapproval and the affection, the outrage and the mourning.

He wonders if he'll die. He wonders if his father will mourn him, or if he'll turn Luxor's death into a weapon against the Hemingways.

Luxor wipes at his face, at the tears burning the corners of his eyes. Does he even want to go home, if he lives? Can he even face his peers after all this? If it were just two kids from the Capitol, maybe it would be easier. You don't have to look at the families of the deceased every day when they're in a whole other District. They're not also Gamemakers like your own family, not people you'd see every day once you were forced to work with the Games staff for future Games.

A sickening thought passes him. If he lives, will he have to represent District Eight? Will he have to go there, almost every year, just to see two new kids being sent to their deaths? Will he have to work with Charlotte, knowing full well that she wanted none of this to unfold? Will they… Will they make _him_ reap the to-be tributes if they don't bother to hire an escort?

He rolls over to his other side. He clamps a hand over his mouth. Don't throw up, he tells himself. You need all the energy you can get from that cold pasta. Luxor curls in on himself. He squeezes his eyes shut and forces himself to think of better things. Things like what Hira must be planning right now. Things like what Valerio is designing. Things like what Gemini is showing off on the runway.

Things like how Jarlos is coping.

His heart begins to ache as he thinks of Jarlos. Has Luxor even thought about him that much before now? Charlotte had told him to keep someone precious in mind to come home to, but has Luxor even thought much about _anyone_ outside of the arena? With everything going wrong and all the chaos unfolding around him, has he thought of anyone other than his alliance? Than the secret he shared with Calico before tonight?

The tears start to fall again, and he stops himself from wiping them away. Crying over the possibility that he may not see Jarlos again… It's the least he can do after the selfish thought process he's gone through so far. Jarlos has seen sides of Luxor no one else has, and they spent so long tiptoeing around what to call their relationship; the fact that he's just forgotten Jarlos altogether is unforgivable.

Luxor presses his face into the sheet. Maybe he doesn't deserve to leave the arena alive.

A hiccup comes from behind him, undeniably belonging to Finn. He doesn't turn around, hoping he's mistaken, but another one soon follows. The hiccups turn into poorly muffled sobs. Everything that Finn's held in since the interviews is spilling over, and with every passing second he loses more and more control over his volume. Luxor chews his lip and sniffs. Finn halts his sobs—was he expecting Luxor to be asleep?—before he gives in again and lets another one slip.

Luxor rolls back over this time. Both boys stare at each other, anguished by the night's—no, by everything that's happened so far to them. The mere sight of Finn beside himself is enough to make Luxor let go of whatever was holding his emotions back, and soon enough he's burying his face in his hands and wailing in tune with Finn.

He misses his family. He misses his friends. He misses Jarlos.

Through his hiccups and sniffles, Luxor sobs, "You shouldn't be here. You don't deserve this."

"I—I ha—" Finn hyperventilates in an attempt to stop crying. "Lux—"

"She doesn't either," Luxor insists. "None of us do."

Finn wipes at his eyes so much that even with just the moonlight cast upon them Luxor can see how raw his skin is. Despite how close they are, separated only by supplies lined between them, both boys are so very, very alone.

His heart can't handle being pushed away, even if Finn is too kind for that, but Luxor sits up anyway. He picks up his sheet and walks over to Finn's side, laying it down beside him before settling atop it once more. Finn sniffs, barely making a move to get away, put distance between them, and Luxor covers himself with the sheet. They lay there, back-to-back, and exhaust themselves in a fit of gloomy solidarity.

Luxor doesn't fall asleep until after Finn does, the smaller boy practically passing out when his tears dry up. His eyelids are heavy, his breathing evening out. As the night carries on, unaffected by their outbursts, Luxor finally slips into a dreamless sleep.

* * *

 **Morganite Gardierre, 14, C-District 6**  
 _Day 6_

"Hey, Morganite."

She looks over at him. After the attack on the cornucopia last night, neither of them had the strength to get up and move around. They'd crashed right there, exhausted and emotionally drained by their families' interviews. She can't say she's enjoyed his company, but Lola's conversation with Gossamer's brother last night definitely did prove a point.

His family explained a _lot_ about him. And now he's aware of that fact as well.

"Yeah?" she wheezes.

"Do you hate Calico too?"

She stops and thinks for a while. Logically she should. He's broken the law, sparked what could possibly be a huge riot and outrage across the Districts. Not even his family is safe from his mistake. But that's what it was, when she boils it down to the essentials—Calico's _mistake_. Morganite's made plenty of those. Morganite was even admonished on live TV for them. Besides, if the Chambray they'd seen was Calico's true self during the Games, then it's not like he lied to them. Not actively.

Intentionally, sure. But not actively.

"I don't know," she says. Her face hurts when she talks, but at least it's not swelling as much as yesterday. Gossamer's tip to do a little bloodletting to reduce the swelling paid off. "Do you?"

He hums. "No," he tells her. He sounds tired, like he's been up all night thinking about this. "If anything, I respect him even more. Something like that isn't easy, and if he hadn't used his true identity as his private session display he could've gotten away with it."

"Didn't think you were capable of respecting others."

"Didn't think I grew up with something wrong with me thanks to my family, but here we are."

Morganite sighs. "Yeah… Some families really aren't great, huh?"

He snorts a laugh. Is she amusing him somehow? Before she can ask, he giggles, "Yeah. You really went to town with your mother last night, though. If I ever said half the shit you did, I'd get a flogging like that of District lawbreakers."

She can't help it. The image of Gossamer being chased down by his parents—what she imagines his parents to be like—as he screams obscenities is too amusing. She bursts out laughing.

"I'm serious," he laughs along with her. "You think even Raime Wormwood's brood is free of capital punishment? Bah!"

Gossamer tries to sit himself up, using his injured hand, and immediately hisses and flops back to the ground. The palm is a hideous shade of red and his skin is covered in blisters that have since gone hard overnight. The wound on his shoulder isn't bleeding much anymore, the blood drying and caking over his skin.

He tries again with his other arm, and this time he manages to sit up and stare out at the cornucopia. While the bodies had been collected, the blood hadn't been cleaned. Not enough time, maybe. Or maybe, since Elysium is being remodelled entirely, there's no point to cleaning something that'll be torn up. Gossamer sucks in a deep, steeling breath against the pain in his hand and shoulder, and he hauls himself to his feet with a drunken stumble.

"You went looking for us because you want to end the Games as soon as possible, right?" he asks out of the blue. Morganite follows his gaze, landing on the rack of swords inside the cornucopia. They must be his weapon of choice—or a weapon he's most experienced in.

She slowly sits up and says, "Yeah…"

He lets out a long, tired breath. "But you already have a District tribute in mind to win with."

Finn. Of all the tributes, she feels he deserves it most. She says exactly that as Gossamer keeps his gaze trained on the swords.

"It's not about who deserves to win," he tells her, voice empty of all emotion. Cold, hard fact, nothing less. "It's about who survives until the end."

"Maybe it should change," she argues. She's pushing herself to her feet now, swaying as her head spins. The bloodletting reduced the swelling, but it's definitely left her lethargic as a consequence. "Maybe the Games should allow people who deserve to win to—well, _to win_!"

Gossamer huffs out a weak laugh. He looks over his shoulder at her, and instead of the almost human expressions he'd worn during their time overnight, he now regards her with his cruel, signature smile.

"This isn't the Wormwood mindset speaking, sweetheart," he tells her. "It's life experience. And I learned it just after I reached your age." He begins walking to the cornucopia. Morganite stumbles after him. She has to get a weapon, maybe fight him off. He can't kill Finn! "The world doesn't operate on childish whims and hopes. It spits in the face of them, kicks dirt in their eyes and mocks you for even thinking something pleasant could happen. 'You expect kindness in this dog-eat-dog world? Stupid child,' it will say."

He picks up a sabre and gives it a practice thrust. The curved blade whistles through the air, and it satisfies Gossamer.

"Let's end it. Today." He turns back to Morganite, his injured hand limp at his side while his sabre is held in a nonlethal position. "We race for a District victor. I hunt for Finn. You hunt for Calico. We have at least some manner of decorum and honour the other's win if the cannon fires before we find our target."

Morganite stares at him, speechless. Her mouth opens and closes in poor attempts at saying everything that comes to mind. Gossamer just watches patiently, unmoving.

Morganite finally manages to squeak out just one sentence, her voice so weak that she almost thinks Gossamer doesn't hear her. "Please don't."

He just throws her a half-smile and turns in the direction of the city centre.

"I want this to end as much as you do," he calls back to her. Morganite can only whimper at the sight of his back, the distance between them growing. Not like this, she begs. Not Finn.

He disappears around the corner of the cornucopia. Morganite can't see or hear him. Her legs move on their own. All she can hear are the thundering footfalls of her boots against pavement, and she crashes into the cornucopia's blanket pile with a grunt. She grasps blindly around her, searching for purchase, before her hand is cut against something sharp.

Morganite zeroes in on the sharp object. It's a knife—a butterfly knife, knocked in a way that exposed the blade in her fall—and she grabs its handle without a second of hesitation.

She doesn't want to kill again. God, she never wants to feel another life slip through her fingers like water. But she can't just sit by and let Finn die, not when she at least has an idea of where Gossamer hid Calico. It'll be a mercy, she tells herself as she sprints, delirious, from the cornucopia. It's not murder if he's already dying, probably in pain. It's a mercy.

Morganite begins sobbing and stumbling on her way to the park as she repeats it over and over. It's mercy. It's _mercy_.

* * *

 **Here we go! One chapter left of the Games, and I think I'll make this QQ a pretty on-the-nose question!**

 **QQ #39:** Who do you think will win the race to determine the District winner? Goss or Morg?

 **We'll be back in a few more days, and then after that we officially post Meliora! Exciting :D**


	46. Finale

**45 - Finale**

 **Gossamer Wormwood, 17, C-District 10**

She'd looked so crestfallen when he'd proposed the race.

Gossamer trudges along the path with his sabre in hand. If he's correct in his assumption, Finn and Luxor won't have left their old haunting grounds after the bombs went off. It should be easy to find them. Easier than finding a buried Calico.

Calico, he thinks. Now who would've guessed that he'd go _that_ far for his sister? Who would've guessed he'd outwit the president and the Games staff in one swoop? As pretentious and pathetic as Darios had sounded in his interview, he was right about Calico outing himself with his private session. Gossamer had been right about one thing, though: Calico was a threat to the Capitol, and they wanted everyone to know.

Gossamer wants to preserve that threat. Gossamer wants that threat to flourish, to grow into something extraordinary. It's not often that he respects someone—and he'd truly meant it when he said he respects Calico—and he refuses to let that one apparently "human" trait of his to be taken away so soon. He grips the sabre tighter. No, after what he's found out his family may have been responsible for in him, he's going to do everything in his power to rectify it.

Raime Wormwood's brood may not be exempt from a lashing, but Gossamer is sure as hell ready to grab the whip and run.

No more comparing him to a monster. He's a damn _person_ , and he doesn't know better. Gossamer slows to a stop, the words sinking in with more weight than he'd realised.

He doesn't know better.

If it's the last thing Gossamer does, he's going to tear his family apart for doing this to him. He's going to make sure Raime regrets favouring Velour, regrets turning Gossamer into his little attempt at a toy soldier. More than anything, he's going to make them _wish_ they'd never wronged him in the first place.

He storms in the direction of the suburbia with renewed purpose. He's leaving this damn arena with Calico—Morganite's wishes be damned—and he's going to leave his damn mark in this godforsaken country's history. He's going to take Lola Amos's job, he's going to hide Calico away from the public, and he's going to fucking _prosper_.

But she'd looked so crestfallen when he'd proposed the race.

Gossamer grinds his teeth together, willing the image of Morganite's horror away from his mind. Forget that she treated him like they were old friends with their banter. Forgot for a moment they were _equal_. Whether or not she leaves the arena is up to her, and it's of no consequence to Gossamer. Who cares what she wants, anyway? She's a brat who doesn't know how to world works yet. She's…

She's what Gossamer wishes he could be again. She's what he wishes he could be now. She's so _free_.

Stop it. Stop it right now. Dwelling on what can never happen won't do him any good. He needs to focus on killing Finn so he can leave, and while he's at it he'll get revenge on that bitch that shot him in the bloodbath. Gossamer will be damned if he can't have his cake and eat it too.

His calm pace turns into angered stomps. Gossamer's just made it past the lake, about to hit the remains of Mason Street. Two more turns of a corner, and he's right there. He can end this.

One corner. He can end this, right here and now. No more breathing in aspestine. No more swelling and blisters on his palm. No more pinched nerves in his shoulder, always set off by the smallest disruptions against his wound.

Two corners. It'd take just one thrust of the sabre into his chest. Give or take a few minutes, it'd be over before he knew it. Calico and Morganite can get medical attention, and all will be well. No more pain.

The gates of the suburbia. Gossamer's heartbeat thrums loudly in his ears, his breathing becoming shallow. It's the moment he's been waiting for this whole time. It's a dream come true.

Gossamer wanders the ruins of the neighbourhood for a time, careful not to disrupt the rubble lest he alert the two boys hiding away. He wants the element of surprise—despite his training, only having one arm he can use is going to make it harder than usual. He might even get another injury. Who knows, at this point?

Something glimmers in a pile deeper in the rubble, metal and reflecting the sun's rays in his eyes. Gossamer raises his burned hand to shield his face, and he makes his way towards the metal with extra caution. As he gets closer he can recognise the item as a cooking pot, and beyond it is a small pile of food.

Jackpot, he thinks.

He tiptoes around the pile of food, spotting the sheets piled next to them. Two heads poke out from underneath them, fast asleep and looking so puffy and raw that Gossamer almost thinks they've cried themselves to sleep.

Pitiful.

He moves around them until their heads are at his feet. Gossamer reaches one foot around, his toes poking the forehead of Finn. He steps back, readies his sabre. He's not going to end this too quickly, not when he has to get his revenge. Finn stirs, naturally looks in the direction of where Gossamer's foot was.

Finn leans up on his elbows, rolling onto his stomach. He spots Gossamer, stares up at him with his jaw dropped. He's speechless, frozen in shock.

Gossamer slashes the boy across the eyes.

Finn screams and rolls around, his palms pressing against his eyes in a futile attempt to save his sight and stop the bleeding. Luxor startles awake, looking over at Finn first and letting out a shout of anguish. Luxor's gaze then moves to Gossamer, and his anguish turns to rage. Gossamer smiles down at him.

It's everything he wanted and more.

Serenaded by Finn's cries, Gossamer readies his sabre for another strike. Luxor throws Finn's sheet up at him, blinding him for a second, but Gossamer cuts it to the ground with ease. Luxor makes that split second of distraction count, though. The boy tackles him at the stomach, sending them both tumbling down the pile of rubble and to the ground. Luxor slips away from Gossamer, crashing to the pavement below.

Gossamer, ever the unlucky boy, feels his nerves light on fire as his shoulder—his _injured goddamn shoulder_ —is the first to land against an overturned slab. His wound reopens and then spreads some, and Gossamer has to bite down his scream as every single joint and nerve in his arm burns his skin from the inside out.

Finn soon follows them, stumbling around and calling for Luxor. He crashes to the ground closer to Gossamer, and Luxor jumps back to his feet in alarm. He thinks Gossamer's going to kill Finn first. Idiot.

Luxor charges Gossamer again, and this time Gossamer fights back. It's primitive and likely to sprain his ankle, but he's not stepping away from Finn if he can help it. Gossamer sets his weight on one foot, lifts the other, and he kicks right out against Luxor's torso. The boy goes stumbling back, winded, and collapses to the ground as he tries to catch his breath.

It's the perfect moment to strike. Gossamer stumbles forward, the pain in his shoulder causing his head to sway for a moment. Luxor is prone before him, trying to back away but ultimately glued to the spot by his exhaustion. Gossamer slashes at him once he's within reach—the lower half of his shirt, along with the surface of his navel, neatly split in a horizontal line.

Gossamer slashes again as Luxor raises an arm to defend himself. Two of his fingers fly in the direction of Finn. Luxor cries out in pain, rolls to his side to shield his hand and vitals. Gossamer slashes at his face, lobs off his earlobe in the process.

He's not sure how he loses his composure so fast, but before he knows it he's just… repeatedly stabbing at Luxor with his sabre. He counts ten by the time Luxor's screams die down to whimpers. He counts twenty by the time he's still, the last of his life slipping away.

The cannon fires. Gossamer keeps stabbing.

By the time he receives a warning from a hovership overhead coming to collect Luxor's body, he counts thirty-six thrusts of the sabre.

One left, he thinks as he gasps for air. He looks over his shoulder, where Finn is struggling to get to his feet and hiccuping as he feels his surroundings. Gossamer wipes Luxor's blood off the blade, letting it glide against his pants smoothly, and turns for Finn.

Just one left. One left, and he can end this.

* * *

 **Morganite Gardierre, 14, C-District 6**

Her lungs are on fire when she reaches the park. Gossamer had to have hidden Calico somewhere around here, she thinks. He couldn't have gone far with how little time it took for him to reunite with the group yesterday.

Morganite wipes some of the dried blood from her face as best she can. Where is he? _Where is he?_ She turns around on the spot once, twice. Her mind is going haywire, and she can't even bring herself to be certain of where she's going when her feet move her in the direction of Odair Street. How much more time does she have? Is Gossamer about to kill Finn right now?

She cries out, but she can't tell if it's in pain or from the overwhelming sense of failure she's feeling. The skin of her fingers peels with every piece of concrete she pulls from the endless piles around her. Her nails begin to bleed with every sliver that gets caught in between them.

She doesn't want to kill. She doesn't want to kill anyone. No more death, no more suffering. Morganite repeats it like a mantra out loud, beside herself as more and more rubble is pulled aside.

There's a shout from afar—it's Finn's voice, so hard to forget after she'd heard his screams in training after the gauntlet. It's soon followed by Luxor, enraged and yelling something. They're too far for her to make out what.

Morganite spirals. Her hands shake as she starts clawing at the bigger chunks. Her breathing is uneven, her chest collapsing in on itself. Have to stop it. Have to kill him. Have to save Finn—

Gossamer's scream rings out this time. Morganite thinks she's crying. It's hard to tell with all the blood already covering her face. Her hand reaches into a small crevice, hoping to get a better grip on the chunk in front of her. She expects to hear more from the distance, probably one of the boys being injured.

She hears a deep-chested cough.

"C—" Morganite's mouth opens and closes. That wasn't all that far from her. Just a little to the left. Morganite shuffles over, closer to where she thinks Calico may be. She might make it. She might have a chance. "Cal—"

Another deep cough. It's right in front of her.

 _Right in front of her_.

 _Right in front._

Morganite rolls the pieces away with abandon, ignoring the pain in her ankle as one lands on it and pins it in place. She can save him. She can save Finn. She has _time_.

The mask Calico's still wearing comes into view, just a foot under the rubble, and through it she can see a pair of tired eyes gazing weakly up at her. Morganite clambers for her knife. She just needs to pull off the mask and—and go for the—

For the eye. Morganite's head begins to spin again. It's harder to breathe, her vision blurring. Her hands shake to the point of almost dropping her knife.

Calico stares at her, at her knife, and understands what she's doing. He's resigned to it, even. It makes this all the more difficult for her. Morganite wails as she reaches in with her other hand and peels off his mask. Calico looks even more sickly without it on.

It's mercy, she has to remind herself again. "It's mercy," she tells herself out loud.

She reaches in with the other hand, knife hovering above Calico's face. He closes his eyes, lets out a long exhale. Morganite panics even more.

And damn it all, he smiles. He smiles like he's been granted a peace he'll never know in his life again. He smiles like he _agrees_ with her.

 _Boom!_

Morganite goes rigid. The hand holding the knife trembles. The tip rests a mere half inch away from his face. She's out of time. She missed her chance.

Finn's dead.

Disgust washes over her. She gawks at the knife, yanks it out of the opening and throws it away from herself. What is she doing? She has to get him out from under there before her excavation attempt crushes him to death.

Calico watches her with a dull expression. Morganite pulls at the rubble more carefully now, freeing him to his shoulders before long. "Hold on," she wheezes every so often. "Almost there."

When one of Calico's hands is free to move, he grabs her wrist and leans on her. He coughs, struggling more and more with his breathing.

"Ann—" He chokes on his own breath. Morganite stares in horror at the sheer amount of blood that comes out of his mouth with each cough. "Not ann—"

"Not what?" She grabs his hand and holds it, hoping to comfort him. He doesn't look too comforted by the gesture.

"Winner," he manages.

She stares at him for a second. It doesn't sink in immediately, his words still a jumble in her disarrayed mind. Winner. Not. "Ann". She blinks, looks back over her shoulder. There's a hovership, sure, and the cannon went off. But something feels off.

And then another cannon goes off. She flinches, her hands gripping Calico tighter, and he groans in pain.

Winners. Not. "Ann".

Winners not announced.

Morganite feels all her strength leave her. She sags forward, leaning on the rubble between her and Calico for support. The first cannon… It wasn't Finn?

Calico's hand drops from her grasp. His eyes close again, a weaker cough escaping him. Morganite stares down at him as he fades in and out of consciousness over and over. She could've done it. She could've saved Finn.

Jourisme's harsh reprimands fill her ears. _Don't make a mistake. Stop being selfish. Think about others for once. You're going to regret it later_. Now she knows she's crying. Morganite faces her palms upwards, where all the scratches and injuries marr her skin. She had time. She had time and she threw it away.

She really is just a brat that makes mistakes.

" _Ladies and gentlemen_ ," Lola's voice booms through the sky, " _our victors of the Fourth Quarter Quell: Morganite Gardierre and Gossamer Wormwood!_ "

Morganite looks down at Calico again. Shouldn't… Shouldn't his name be in there? One trembling hand reaches back in, hovering in front of his mouth and nose. She can hardly feel any air coming out.

No.

No, no, no.

The hovership moves in her direction, Peacekeepers and Gamemakers exiting to guide her back on with them. Morganite points at Calico, mouth opening and closing and her voice dead in her throat. They don't leave him behind. No, they dig him up and put him on a stretcher.

Gossamer's already on the hovership, getting medical attention, when she stumbles in. He doesn't look at her once, his focus purely on Calico as he's rushed towards a proper medical bay on the machine.

"Is he alive?" he asks one of the Gamemakers, his tone demanding.

"We'll see," is all he gets in response.

Morganite's panic and anguish begins to morph. It twists and turns, dyes itself a deep red at the sight of Gossamer's tunnel vision. It turns to rage. She storms over to him, shoving away the nurse stitching up his shoulder, and she grabs his shirt collar with a snarl.

"You didn't have to kill him!" she screeches. "You only said Finn! Luxor didn't deserve to die too!"

Gossamer looks at her, his gaze just as dull as Calico's had been. "It's not about who deserves to," he reminds her.

Morganite can't stop herself. She brings one hand up and slaps him hard across the face. Her cuts open further, her nails crying out in pain. Gossamer doesn't retaliate. He just sits there, watching her, and waits.

Waits for a nearby Gamemaker to administer morphling to her, to keep her calm and under close watch while they return to the Capitol.

* * *

 **There we have it! The 4th Quell concluded, our victors decided! You know what this means? We can officially publish Meliora and "open" (like I haven't already wheeze) tribute submissions, and then after the first epilogue I can also open escort submissions for Meliora! Gosh, it's been like two years working on this - what a wild ride, right? It was amazing working with all these characters you guys gave me, and I'm super looking forward to what you all bring for the sequel!**

 **I guess I'll close off this final Games chapter with another QQ, like usual!**

 **QQ #40:** What do you think is in store for our victors now that they're out of the arena?

 **See you in Meliora and in the first epilogue for Mortem!**


	47. Phase One

**Just a few epilogues and then Mortem is done! Whew, almost get to check the little "complete" box**

* * *

 **46 - Phase One**

 **Gossamer Wormwood, 17, C-District 10  
Victor of the 4th Quarter Quell**  
 _Two weeks later_

"Well fuck me sideways," he mutters at the sight of her. He closes the door behind him, careful not to let it hit his other shoulder. The doctor doesn't want it aggravated too soon, despite how long he's had to heal. "This is the last place I thought I'd see you."

Lola crosses one leg over the other and adjusts the clipboard. "Pleasure to see you again, too, Mr. Wormwood."

"Change of career after you interviewed us onstage last week?" He shuffles over to the couch, hospital slippers too comfy to properly walk in. Morganite's already been discharged, her face showing no signs of broken bones and her hands merely needing antibiotics.

"I _wish_ ," Lola scoffs. She clicks open her pen and flicks through her papers. Gossamer sits down on the couch and sinks into it. "No, I'm here because a _wonderful_ man named Horace Becskei noticed how much attention I paid to your mental health throughout my observations. 'Who better than someone who called it for what it is?' Ridiculous."

Right, she'd done that, hadn't see? Just to shut up Velour and educate him and his parents. She never did say what it was he had, though.

"What _do_ I have, by the way?"

Lola doesn't glance up at him. "It's called Narcissistic Personality Disorder. And before you ask," she sighs, " _no_ , it doesn't mean you're just really fucking full of yourself."

"Language, Ms. Amos." He feigns horror. "I'm still a child."

She rolls her eyes.

"All pleasantries aside," Lola sighs. "How are you, Gossamer?"

He raises his brows at her. How is he? No one's even asked him that yet. Not a single person. Funny that it's Lola, of all people, who gets the honour of being the first.

Gossamer blinks and looks down at his sling. How _is_ he, now that he thinks about it? He's been cooped up in the hospital for all of two weeks, save for the one visit to the Games building for Lola's victory interview. Barely anyone's been to see him, especially his co-victor and mentor, and he doubts he'll have anyone come for the rest of his stay. More than that…

"I don't know," he admits. Lola nods, lets him go on. "I have dreams, but I don't lose sleep over them. No one's visited me, but I don't really want them to. And there's still the matter of—well, of Calico."

"Which part?" Lola prompts him. She even goes on to joke, "There was a lot going on with him, y'know."

Gossamer shrugs his good shoulder. "There's firing a cannon early, like they did with Octavia," he says, "and then there's never firing it at all, yet still announcing him dead on the scene.

"Why collect his body and put it on a stretcher if he's dead? Why keep his status a secret until _after_ the victory interview? Why all the secrecy in general?"

She looks up from her notes and watches him for a second. Then, she clicks her pen closed and sets it down. "Gossamer, I'm going to ask you something extremely blunt. You may not like it, but sometimes cutting straight to the point can help you realise things without dissuading yourself. Did you feel a sort of attachment with Calico, back when you thought he was Chambray?"

Gossamer scoffs a laugh. " _Attachment_?" he says. "To me, Calico before the Games was a threat. Almost no one else was save for Wystan, but he was an obvious one. And how would I even form an attachment to someone I barely even spoke to before the arena launch? Even then we had, what, one conversation?"

Lola leans forward. She's got an expectant look on her face.

"I," Gossamer says matter-of-factly, "just respected the idea of Chambray I built."

She looks like him like he's said the most moronic thing in the world. "Respecting a person is a solid start to bonding with them, Gossamer."

 _I respect my parents_ , he almost says. But he stops himself. No, he doesn't respect his parents. By this point he's come to want nothing to do with them. And he's fairly certain his parents don't respect him, either.

Huh. Maybe that's why there was never a bond between them. Only cold professionalism and strict rules.

"Shit," Gossamer wheezes. He runs his hand down his face and groans. " _Shit_. What am I even supposed to do with it?"

And Lola scoffs a laugh back at him. She looks sufficiently satisfied with his revelation, almost smug at his loss of sense.

"You grow as a human being, smartass."

* * *

 **Morganite Gardierre, 14, C-District 6  
Victor of the 4th Quarter Quell**

She looks up at the mansion and chews her lip. It's… big. Different. Not what she'd expected when she found out Capitolite victors got the same benefits as District victors.

Just a whole plot of land set aside for herself—and of course Gossamer, whose own mansion is right across the road from her own. A large garden, the flowers so shiny and smooth she almost swears they're made of gemstones or had something dusted onto them. A statue of Morganite in the middle of it all, dressed in clothing she'd expect to see in the chariots of District Two tributes and posing regally, one hand holding a knife while the other rests over her heart. The statue itself is made of rose quartz, attempting to mimic marble while still paying homage to her pink hair.

Morganite scowls. It's so gaudy. Gossamer has one too, and it's made of pyrite—she thinks—and he stands with his feet at shoulders' width and dressed similarly to Morganite; his statue has a sword in both hands, the blade buried in the ground in front of him while he looks up with pride at the sky.

Beside her, Barbara lets out a low whistle. She hasn't bothered keeping her sunglasses on, leaving her scarred eye to get some sun for once.

"They don't give us statues," she teases. "Pride of the Capitol, you two are."

Morganite gives her a dry glare. Barbara smirks and raises her hands, backing off. The woman knows how tough this is. She knows how hard it is to go back to normal after all of… _this_.

"They'll send your first allowance after the victory tour," Barbara tells her. Morganite tucks her hands in her pockets, her gaze moving back to the house. As gaudy as it is, she does admire the bay windows on each floor. "After that you'll get it monthly, and it'll be enough to support three people. That being said," she goes on, jabbing a thumb in the other mansion's direction, "it doesn't mean you'll _live_ with two others if you don't want to. We all know Wormwood won't."

She's not sure. She hasn't had a good conversation with her parents since coming back, even while she was in hospital. It's just been two weeks of chaos, and she knows it'll get worse no matter what she decides to do. Only invite Alexandrite? Jourisme will blow a gasket. Invite both? Morganite will be nagged endlessly for her actions in the Games and what she wants to do in life. Invite neither? She's subject to countless phone calls and occasional visits that will break the peace and quiet she desperately wants right now.

"I'll think about it," she tells Barbara. The woman nods.

"And if you ever need something to help if you get, I don't know, phantom aches—" Barbara reaches into the pocket of her jacket, pushing a slip of paper into Morganite's hand. It has a phone number on it, as well as an address in District Six's Victors' Village. "—I'll lend you some of the stuff I use so you don't have to rely on morphling."

Morganite thanks Barbara. The woman begins her long walk out of the Capitol's first, and probably only, completed neighbourhood in their own Victors' Village. Morganite watches with a blank stare, buying herself just a little more time before she has to look at her new home.

She stalls enough to make herself zone out. It isn't until there's a car driving into the Victors' Village that Morganite turns back to the house and steels herself to enter. The car comes to a stop at Gossamer's mansion, and he bursts out of the car before she can even reach for the handle of her home.

Gossamer jogs over to her doorstep as fast as he can, and he's wheezing as he tries not to let the arm stuck in the sling thump against his chest. Looks like they finally let him out, she thinks, which means she'll probably have to deal with seeing him every day now.

She just wants to forget she even went through all this.

He looks down at her, and for a moment he looks uncertain of what he wants to say. Gossamer reaches into the sling, pulls out an envelope, but stops before he can hand it to her.

"I…" Gossamer sucks in a deep breath. Morganite grabs the door knob while still watching him. "I know I'm _difficult_. I know you have every right to hate me, even if I myself think my actions were justified."

He looks at her door, then back at her. She just wants him to spit it out, but she doesn't have the energy anymore to be angry. Being angry feels so exhausting lately.

"There's a long way to go and everything, but I wanted to—to try and put one foot through the door—"

"I'm not some morality pet catered to your recovery, Gossamer," she blurts out, voice low and tired. His brows rise, then furrow.

"Ah," he mutters. "It does sound like that, doesn't it?"

He purses his lips—a poor attempt at a smile, but it looks to pitiful compared to all the others she'd seen—and holds the envelope out for her.

"Horace asked me to give you this. I already read my own—they gave me Lola's job. I assume they'll have a similar offer for you."

She grabs the envelope and swings open the door.

"Morganite, I—"

Morganite walks inside and shuts the door without a word. Whatever he has to say outside of official business, she doesn't want to hear it. Not right now. Probably not ever.

She barely takes in the stunning appearance of the indoors. Morganite drops to the floor and draws her knees to her chest, listening as Gossamer walks off of her property.

* * *

 _To Miss Morganite Gariderre_

 _I would like to congratulate you on your victory in the 4th Quarter Quell, first and foremost. A regular Hunger Games is difficult for most to win, Quells even more so. At least, that's what my nibling tells me._

 _This letter is not just to sing your praises, however. As you may be aware now that you're back in the Capitol, tragedy has struck and left the Head Gamemaker and President Snow in critical condition. Malvolia Nero has shown signs of a swift recovery, possibly even a release by the next Games, but unfortunately President Snow has been put in a medically induced coma for the time being. This leaves the Capitol without a president, and the Games without a Gamemaker to lead the show._

 _Miss Gardierre, I watched you talk about the Games being about someone deserving victory. I watched the look on your face when Mr. Wormwood told you his own view. As much as I would love to pick a side, I must admit I agree with you both. While the victor isn't who deserves to win, I do believe those who go into the Games should be those who deserve the punishment. It is with this viewpoint that I want to change the Games for the better and perhaps even reward those who shouldn't be in the reapings any longer. Rumours are spreading of rebel activity rising, almost every District afflicted by this dangerous ideal. In order to prevent such travesties from happening again at the hands of these people, I implore you to assist me and the remaining council in changing Panem's way of life for the first time in a century. We will conduct this in phases, with this letter and offer, as well as your successful recovery from physical injuries, serving as Phase One._

 _For your cooperation, I offer you the position of escort that I heard you desired since learning of your own mother's previous affiliation with the Games. Should that not be a present desire, however, I will be more than willing to negotiate. The Games change people, I understand, and you are still only human._

 _Please contact me at your convenience,_

 _CM Horace Becskei_

* * *

 **Alright, time for a QQ!**

 **QQ #41:** If you had a statue of yourself made, what would you want it to be made of?

 **I'll see you in Phase Two/epilogue two!**


	48. Phase Two

**Woo! One more chapter and then we're done with Mortem! Exciting, right?**

* * *

 **47 - Phase Two**

 **Horace Becskei, Interim President of Panem**

This may be the most difficult thing he's ever done. More difficult than talking Celestia down from her excited impulses. More difficult than getting the rest of the council to agree with him on a proposal. More difficult than, just this morning, earning the right to be called the interim president while Celestia, fresh out of surgery and weakened considerably, is placed in a coma.

He pushes open the doors to the intensive care unit like he owns the place, head held high. No one stops him, too busy working on their own patients and emergencies. Speaking of comas, he thinks as he passes one bed…

Sarah Church is being crowded by half a dozen doctors, still unconscious but apparently showing improvement. The doctors look pleased, checking all of her vitals and discussing their results with each other. Horace overhears one of them say she may awaken before the end of the year—just long enough for the rest of her brother's down payments to last. Horace lingers by her tucked away section of space for a moment; he'd seen Church in the Games, reviewed the footage to get a proper grasp on the kinds of tributes going into the Games this year, and now he thinks it's uncanny how similar he and his sister look.

All this for Sarah. Horace straightens his jacket and continues on through the ICU. He can understand the sentiment, especially when he thinks of his own family.

The room he wants, still tucked away from the rest of the ICU, is at the end of all the beds lining the floor. Two Peacekeepers guard the door, unarmed but still looking imposing in the hospital gear they've had to replace their armour with. Horace pulls out his ID, gets permission to enter, and shuts the door to the room behind him.

It's been… a while since he last saw this face. Nearly two years, if he thinks about it enough. Young and blank, the face of a son Horace never quite got along with no matter how hard he tried. The face of a son who, upon learning of his parents' divorce, had disappeared without a trace and tore a further rift between his parents. The blame game still hasn't ended. Horace isn't sure if it ever will.

This is the face of someone he'd give anything to see smile again. Before him is not the person, however, that this face belongs to.

He's handcuffed to the bed, his gaze dull and broken as he watches nothing. He just stares ahead, barely following Horace as he approaches the bed and takes a seat a good two feet away. For security reasons, he'd been told the moment he placed the order—putting in a neat little loophole in Celestia's sick deal—but by now it's obvious that he barely even has the strength to kill someone else, let alone grab them.

"You know," Horace begins. The dull gaze slowly turns for him. There's still some bruising around the eyes, where his nose and cheekbones were operated on. "You're a lot like him. Quiet, hiding behind a mask, had a knack for his namesake. Autistic—though he was diagnosed from a young age, compared to you."

He can't speak yet, but Horace can see the despair forming behind his dead stare. Despite two weeks having passed, the surgery for his lungs will take the longest to heal compared to his face.

"Same age," Horace goes on. "Same height—though he wasn't expected to grow much in adulthood, anyway. Same hair and eye colour, even."

Horace can hear his son's voice when he looks back at those eyes. He can hear him begging the same way Calico would, if he could: "Kill me. Don't do this to me. Please."

Horace folds his hands over his lap. "Hate me for this if you want," he tells Calico. "I know what Celestia promised she would do if you survived. I know how difficult it is to just release someone from a cell without a good reason other than deserving freedom. But you need to know that she's safe."

Calico tries to shake his head. He's still too weak to do even that.

"She is. And I want to keep you safe. I want you to help me prevent something like this from happening again."

The despair turns to anger. One arm shakily lifts from the bed, only to flop back down with a loud clatter of the handcuff against the rail. Calico opens and closes his mouth. No sounds come out.

"The legal work's been done and the officials have been bribed," Horace tells him. He rises from the chair and gives the teen—no, his _son_ —a sympathetic smile. "Calla won't be needing his name anymore, and I doubt we'll be finding him after this long. At least, if you're disguised as a reclusive child of mine, no one will go digging around about you."

When he makes it to the door, opening it just an inch, Calico finally makes a sound.

When Horace closes the door, the Peacekeepers still as statues, he faintly hears Calico—Calla screeching at the top of his lungs. There are no words, but even someone in Sarah's state would recognise the anguish and rage in his voice.

* * *

 **Morganite Gardierre, 14, C-District 6**

 _Victory Tour_

The Capitol is their last stop, according to their escorts. Proper time is apparently needed for twelve whole families to be assembled, especially when some of them are in mourning or hospitalised. Or, she thinks grimly, arrested.

The last thing she expects to see is Gossamer boarding five minutes late, cat carrier balanced under his good arm while his bandaged, slowly healing arm is tucked inside his jacket. Morganite raises a brow, watching as he sinks into a seat and settles the cat carrier on his lap. From inside, a calico kitten mewls at her.

Morganite can't stop herself from asking. "What is that?"

The train begins to move, the escorts heading for a lunch car with their attention completely off of their victors. Morganite can't imagine how often regular tributes have to put up with such treatment.

Gossamer opens the carrier and pulls the kitten out. She can count six toes on each foot—something she's pretty sure not every cat has.

"It's a hemingway cat," he tells her. The cat begins to purr loudly as he lets it climb his shoulder. "Well, officially they're called polydactyl cats. But—"

"A hemingway calico cat," Morganite growls. She clenches her hands into fists under the table. "Is this some joke to you?"

He stares at her for a moment. He thinks of what to say. For the first time since she's met him, he's being considerate of his answer.

Just as the train exits the Capitol, heading for the first of the Districts, Gossamer answers, "I really did respect him. Not knowing what happened to him after we came back, and just being told that he was dead, it… It made me sad, I guess. I think I wanted to get to know him more."

"You _think_?"

"I don't _do_ feelings outside of the 'villainy' spectrum that well, Morganite. But I'm trying to figure out what it is."

She glares at him.

"I really did mean it too, when I tried to apologise earlier this week." The cat nudges his face, and Gossamer gives it a small, soft smile and nudges it back. It's too tender to hate, but Morganite hates the fact that it is anyway. "I hurt you. It was wrong."

"No shit," she snaps. The cat startles, its claws digging into Gossamer's injured shoulder. He flinches, but to her surprise he doesn't admonish the cat. Instead, Gossamer makes soothing sounds at it and scratches behind one of its ears.

It's jarring to watch. It's difficult to yell at him and make him react like she wants when the cat is there, comforting and correcting him. Morganite lets out a breath and leans back into her chair.

"So what'd you name it?" she asks. She doesn't hide her disgust when she guesses, "Chambray?"

Gossamer chuckles. "No, no. The night before the Games, I actually ran into him in the elevator. I… I tried to intimidate him, invaded his space. You could actually see him contemplating jumping out and landing on one of the walkways underneath us."

She frowns at him. Gossamer clears his throat and mumbles an apology. That's two extra than normal.

"I called him muffet," he goes on. "Not really an insult like I usually go for, but… Well, it hit me today when I saw the kitten. Muffet's a really cute name for a cat."

"So you made its namesake a night you probably traumatised Calico," she deadpans.

Gossamer gawks at her. "I—"

And then he stops. He can't find the words to continue, eventually conceding as the kitten climbs down onto his lap.

"It is pretty insensitive, huh?" he sighs. When he looks at her again, he adds, "Do you… want to throw a name out that'll suit him?"

"Whiskers," she fires immediately.

"Basic," Gossamer critiques, just as quick.

The names she suggests are all critiqued one way or another. By the time they get to District One, she'd hardly noticed the time go by.

Knight's parents don't have much to say about their son. Morganite finds out that her initial ally had been considered a statistic, more of a soldier than a son to his own family. He didn't even have any friends, the closest he had to one being a boy who was next to him every year for the reapings. The same boy who lifted him when he volunteered.

Morganite wants to yell at his parents for dismissing him so readily. He was their _only son_ , someone they should've loved or at least worried about! But instead they just act like he never existed anyway, and even announce intentions to have another child. She feels sick as Gossamer handles the speech, his kitten left on the train for security's sake.

"Disgusting," Gossamer hisses once they're back on the train. For once since the Games ended, she has to agree with him.

It doesn't take long to arrive at District Two. Compared to Knight's parents, Cetronia's at least acknowledge their daughter.

When the speech is over and the image of Cetronia on the banner above her family fades, Morganite's shocked to find the girl's father approach her with an almost impressed look on his face. He holds out a hand, nods to her once, and tells her that her coup had impressed him. Taking down Cetronia, even by other careers, was apparently no easy feat.

She feels even more sick as she shakes his hand, forcing a smile and a thank you.

District Three is a longer trip. She doesn't understand why they don't just do the victory tour in one fell swoop, out of order but at least saving more time. But no, it's all numerical order and slowly counting down the Districts until she has to face the one family she dreads most. At least, she thinks once they arrive at District Three, she wasn't the one to actually kill Daphne.

The Petharaph family are so different to what she expects them to be. She knows Three is full of intelligent people who can make anything out of anything, but she never expected there to be vets and comic book artists among them. Vector Petheraph smells of wet dog when he shakes her hand, and Morganite finds a small ink stain on her palm after shaking Disney Petheraph's.

District Four is on the other side of the country. It's leagues more beautiful than Morganite can even imagine.

Adrianne's father—adoptive father, he points out once they meet—is heartbroken over his loss. He's a big man, well-learned and definitely someone who'd fit in among the Capitol. But his heart belongs to Four, and to his family he'd made here. Morganite can't stop herself from hugging him and apologising for attacking Adrianne when she did.

Jack Evans promises them both a steady supply of fish, which he normally only sends to the Victors' Village outside of business. When they part, he tells Morganite to check on Cole's father—the one who'd adopted him while the Games were in preparation.

Morganite loses her appetite the closer they get to District Six. She goes to bed that night without dinner, and when they arrive she struggles to even eat breakfast.

District Five isn't far from Four, but they stop midway and keep Peacekeepers posted on all the cars. She wakes up a few times due to nightmares. One trip for a glass of water sees Gossamer watching the news like it's a lifeline, eyes on the headlines while he pets the kitten.

When she meets the Ikeda family, it's almost like looking at her own. Disapproving mother, supportive father, which soon breaks out into an argument on live TV as Cliona continues to deadname her son. Morganite shakes onstage, and she even stops her own speech to screech at them, "His name was Tooru! _Tooru_!"

Katsu Ikeda thanks her, unable to stop his crying, for letting his only son be remembered for who he was. Cliona Ikeda never speaks so much as a word to her, leaving without her husband for their home once the speech concludes.

And then the District she dreads most arrives.

She's supposed to give a speech on how the Quell theme has promoted the reliance of Capitol and Districts working together, on how her District partner fought hard and proud to the end. Neither points are true. She knows Finn died looking for Luxor, blinded and in pain; she knows that having only Capitolite winners has put an even greater divide between the Capitol and the rest of Panem. It's all bullshit.

Morganite tears up her sheet notes and drops them to the stage.

"I'm sorry," she says, loud and clear, into the mic. The Styx family huddles together, but they don't ignore her. "I couldn't do more than push him onstage."

His sister hugs her when the speech concludes. Even his parents, impossibly understanding and forgiving, embrace her and tell her it's alright. Calic Styx tells her he's proud of her. Morganite sobs in his arms and continues to apologise.

Both the escorts and mentors chew her out for not giving the speech, and even forbid her from speaking in the subsequent Districts.

That's fine, she thinks. Gossamer's better at wowing a crowd with what they want, anyway.

* * *

 **Gossamer Wormwood, 17, C-District 10**

 _Victory Tour_

They're halfway were. Just six—maybe seven, if he even wants to count the Capitol—and then they can go home to their mansions.

While Morganite's deviation from the script is understandable, he wishes she hadn't done it so close to the Districts he's directly responsible for the deaths of. He's not used to thinking of others before he speaks, or even holding back his more snide remarks. Even Lola agrees that he's got a good, long road ahead of him with this.

Before they arrive in Seven, he's glued to the tablet he snuck on the train as updates to the arrests are reported. At first it was the reveal that wanted criminal, Isabelle Eulane, had been posing as Eunice Porter during the Games. Then it was the news that rebels in the Capitol have been discovered, even among Gamemaking families.

Yesterday a report on Luvenia and Selma Nero, Malvolia Nero's daughters, being arrested was made. Today, it's about celebrities even Gossamer hadn't expected to be rebels.

He told Lola he's not losing sleep over his dreams, but of course that's a bold-faced lie. He needs more and more makeup with each passing day to look like he's slept a proper amount. Soon enough he'll be found out, and then it's back to square one and being treated like a liar.

His speech in District Seven keeps him awake long enough to see the sheer hatred the Hamilton family aim at him. Considering how much practice Morganite has given him over the last few weeks, seething at him whenever they make eye contact, he's at least somewhat used to it. He doesn't back away or try to fight back. He just reads the speech out, and keeps his face blank has one Hamilton tries to slug him.

Gossamer isn't surprised to see that it's the same Hamilton who tried to help Ham run away during the reapings.

District Eight, in comparison, is much, _much_ worse. And they never even get off the train.

Dianne spots them both and delivers the news. "We're not stopping at Eight," she tells them. Gossamer looks up from his tablet, and Morganite stops staring at his cat and writing down names.

"Why?" he asks.

They emerge from the tunnel, and as they pass through Eight it becomes increasingly clear just why they're continuing past it. The train is assaulted by countless pieces of wood and stones, the sounds of people yelling and screaming outside clear through even the thick walls of the car. Morganite jumps to her feet as a heavy stone hits the window behind her, cracking the glass to the point of almost shattering.

"Because of _that_ ," Dianne sighs. Gossamer picks up his cat and loads it into the carrier. He can't be too safe with the chaos outside. "The District's split in half over the arrest of the Hemingways. Peacekeepers are containing it, but it's hard to arrest all the rebel sympathisers in one day like this."

When they're between District Eight and District Nine, the train is repaired on short order. Windows are replaced, and a few panels of the train's casing have to be buffed out. Gossamer and Morganite don't argue over names for his cat when the train moves again. Instead, they stare at each other with growing anxiety over how the last four Districts will fare.

District Nine is quieter. The Belfast family stays silent, heads bowed in mourning as Gossamer delivers the speech. This is a District Morganite was supposed to speak in. The condolences sound hollow with his voice. Even when he meets with the family, giving them a handshake and apologising for their daughter's death, they don't say anything.

They just accept it, like they'd come to terms with her death long before the Games had started.

When they're back on the train, Gossamer blurts out, "Can we skip Ten?"

Barbara, tucked away at the back of the car with a meal, tells him he's a spoiled brat and that he has to suck it up. Gossamer, unable to help himself, calls her a jaded hag.

To his endless surprise, a fight _doesn't_ break out between them. Barbara just smugly tells him, "And you'll be the next one."

Much like Seven, Ten is filled with animosity directed at Gossamer. The Faye family is well aware that Isabelle was arrested, and they saw Octavia die. Now, with Peacekeepers surrounding them, Victor and Adolphe Faye can only glare at Gossamer and spit at his speech.

Victor is dragged away kicking in screaming once the speech concludes. Adolphe goes silently, his face darkening with the hollow condolences from his daughter's—rival? Enemy? Now that he thinks about it, just what villainous label had Octavia given him? Or was he like the other Capitolites, too disliked by her to even _be_ categorised?

Eleven is right next to Ten, so the trip there is short. Gossamer never really interacted with the last two District tributes, and he's not at all phased at the sight of Jareth's spiteful uncle yelling about how much of a weight off his back the boy's death had been.

Gossamer levels a glare at the man, and like Morganite he deviates from his script. He knows, without a doubt, that this would probably be his own family had he died in the arena.

"Where's the woman who abused him?" he demanded. Morganite gawks at him, and she's shoved aside by Dianne as the microphone is snatched from him.

Constance raises her hand despite Gossamer's microphone being taken away. And Gossamer, despite the decrease in volume he has, shouts across the large crowd to her.

"You're fucking pathetic!"

The train is once again pelted with rocks as they leave.

He's yelled at much like Morganite had been, but they still make him read the last speech. Gossamer curls up beside his cat that night, ignoring all news on his tablet, and he just stares at the feline.

He wishes he'd gotten to know Calico more. Maybe they'd have gotten along. Maybe Gossamer would've had a friend—not someone he used like Sol, who still hung around because he couldn't get a clue.

Their last stop before the Capitol is Twelve. It's peaceful, if a little somber, and the momentary father of Cole Aish—Cole _Flare_ is brought up to shake Gossamer and Morganite's hands. Hartson chews his lip and apologises for the soot on his hands, and he doesn't linger near the two victors. No, he returns to his shift where his employees comfort him, hands rubbing his back and arms holding him in an embrace.

It's camaraderie, if Gossamer ever saw it.

Finally, _finally_ , they return home. Twelve families are gathered outside the Games building, including his and Morganite's, and one by one he takes in their expressions. All but their own families hold portraits of their children.

The anguish on Vikram Plume's face while Bex and Nadiya Plume-Teagan hold each other.

The unspeakable anger that Alan and May Warwick, former Peacekeepers Gossamer knows worked with his parents, aim at him.

The hateful glares of Elias and Natania Farrington.

The sniffling, distraught face of Rorius Serif as he clings to his sibling's portrait.

The stoic, possibly altered faces of the X family, who probably aren't even the _real_ X family. Gossamer can't say for sure.

Morganite's fire-and-ice parents, Jourisme frowning while Alexandrite watches proudly.

The resigned expression of Cyber's owner, Madeline von Bucharest, as she fondly runs a hand down his portrait.

The enraged, handcuffed Darios Aricunai and his uncuffed, equally enraged wife, Relope.

To Gossamer's surprise, given what he knew of Church, the presence of an unconscious Sarah Church in a wheelchair while their butler, Leonard, holds her steady. Church's portrait rests on her lap.

His own family, bored to tears and in full Peacekeeper gear. Even Velour is too busy inspecting his nails to care, and Gossamer's left without so much as a glance from any of them.

The bittersweet expressions of Avita's mothers, Florentina and Varinia, while their son, Philo, hugs the poodle they'd brought with them. It's dyed pink, probably in Avita's honour.

Finally, the mixed bag of emotions that is Florence's family. The sobbing Abdiel, a father in mourning. The silent Dashiel, a brother speechless. The furious Ember, a sister ready to lunge for the people who were supposed to protect Florence.

The victory tour is more exhausting than he expects. The families disperse, his own ignoring him and returning to their duties. When Morganite's approaches her, he can't help but watch with envy as they hug their daughter and welcome her home.

Gossamer leaves for the mansion without so much as a word to anyone else. He just picks up his cat and hops into the car waiting for him outside.

* * *

 **And there's our victory tour! I'll base the QQ on Gossamer's cat, since I'd love to see what you guys can think of!**

 **QQ #42:** What would you suggest for a name for the kitten?

 **I'll see you next chapter, which'll be Mortem's last! And from there, I hope I'll see you all in Meliora :D**


End file.
